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ISLAND OF DESTINY 


BY 

ARTHUR J. REES 

M |/ 


Te semper anteit saeva Necessitas 
Clavos trabales et euneos manu 
Gestans aena.— Horace. 



> * 4i 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 

1923 



* •» 


T2* 

ft 


Copyright, 1923, 

By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc. 



PRINTED !N THE U. S. A, BY 

tEf»c <£humi & 53ot)fn Companp 

BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
RAHWAY NEW JERSEY 


SEP 20 ’23 H 

©C1A759046 

>vtO 0/ 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I 

Alone. 





PAGE 

1 

II 

The Coming of tiie Dead 





13 

III 

England .... 





26 

IV 

Redways .... 





33 

V 

Father and Son 





48 

VI 

The Staircase 





59 

VII 

Kathleen .... 





68 

VIII 

Robert Lynngarth’s Story 





78 

IX 

After Long Years . 





92 

X 

Lady Mercer Remembers 





105 

XI 

The Nails of Fate . 





116 

XII 

A Meeting in the Churchyard 




126 

XIII 

And Its Consequences 





135 

XIV 

To-Morrow? 





144 

XV 

In the Night 





152 

XVI 

A Veiled Disappearance . 





158 

XVII 

Colonel Glenluce Arrives 





169 

XVIII 

What the Bureau Revealed 





177 

XIX 

The Toll of the Bell . 





185 

XX 

Father and Son 





193 










CONTENTS 


vi 


CHAPTER 

XXI 

Colloquy at Redyvays . 

• 

• 

PAGE 

202 

XXII 

Discoveries. 


• 

212 

XXIII 

Reflections in a Tower 


• 

221 

XXIV 

The Motility of Death 


• 

233 

XXV 

In Deepening Shadow . 


• 

246 

XXVI 

Luckraft Revisits Redways . 


• 

257 

XXVII 

The Gulf Between 


• 

271 

XXVIII 

The Valley of Decision 


• 

280 

XXIX 

On the Same Day 


• 

287 

XXX 

Stella . 



297 

XXXI 

A Knight-Errant of Dawnia 


• 

308 

XXXII 

From Dawnia to Redways . 


• 

320 

XXXIII 

The Uttermost Parts of the Sea 


• 

338 

XXXIV 

Moving Waters Cannot Quench Love 

• 

350 

XXXV 

Sanctuary . 

• 

• 

360 






ISLAND OF DESTINY 









ISLAND OF DESTINY 


CHAPTER I 

ALONE 

1 

T HE giant rollers were breaking with the sound of 
thunder on the glittering obsidian cliffs, and the 
air was heavy with the impending calamity of a 
great storm. An inky sky drooped low, and the waves 
leapt to meet it in a skirl of foam. Between the flat ex¬ 
panse above and the moving surface below the wind 
whirred with the noise of a million humming tops, and the 
water rushed to the horizon in a waste of raging grey. 

Islands, mere barren rocks, were scattered in that deso¬ 
late sea like mushrooms in a meadow; an unstable meadow 
which covered the smaller islands with each turbulent rush. 
They disappeared and emerged glistening, then disap¬ 
peared again, while clouds of seabirds hovered, settled, 
and hovered once mere with loud cries. 

The island with the glittering cliffs was the largest by 
far; a giant mushroom bursting from the sea to the height 
of a thousand feet. Above its cliffs of obsidian basaft 
rose hills clothed with trees and thick with undergrowth. 

Around it desolation reigned supreme, and loneliness 
held sovereign sway. The breakers foamed in inchoate 
madness among the rocky islets, and seabirds screamed 

mournfully above an empty sea which ran unchecked to 

1 


2 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


the southern rim of the globe. It was a scene where a 
god, tired of solitude, might have brooded fresh schemes 
for peopling dead worlds, but the last spot where one 
would have expected his highest handiwork on this to be 
found. 

Yet a man stood there; a motionless dark speck upon 
the brink of the glittering cliffs in the lowering dusk of 
that cheerless evening. 

The clouds parted, and revealed a red sun hanging on 
the horizon like a distorted eye which seemed to stare at 
the solitary figure upon the cliffs. The man watched 
it earnestly. It plunged beneath the water as he looked, 
trailing a last gleam of light across the dark sea like a 
streak of blood, and the wings of night threw monstrous 
shadows across the sky. The islands and the birds van¬ 
ished from view in a bluish mist which began to spread 
over the surface of the waves. A large albatross swept 
rapidly overhead on snow-white pinions as though it feared 
the coming dark. The sea moaned uneasily. A drop of 
rain splashed warm and thick on the man’s hand. It was 
the presage of the coming storm. With a final glance 
around him, and another at the black sky, he turned his 
back on the cliffs and walked away. 

He kept to the heights until the cliffs dwindled and 
declined into a sagging rocky extremity which disappeared 
beneath the sea. Where they started to fall away he 
turned into a path which dropped like a thread down 
the rocks to a strip of white beach below. Descending 
this path with care, he picked his way through the surf 
creaming on the beach until he reached a stone landing- 
place jutting into the sea. Behind the landing-place a 
green declivity stretched towards a high saddle of the 
hills, and in the open space was built a hut. As the man 
approached, the stillness of the dusk was broken by a 


ALONE 


3 


sound incongruous yet homelike in the primeval solitude 
—the joyous, welcoming bark of a dog. 

2 

Inside the hut it was dark, but a handful of fire glowed 
on the dim outline of homely things and the frisking 
shape of the dog. The man lit a swinging lamp. The 
stronger light gushed upon a beamed interior, furnished 
roughly. A table, two chairs, a dresser with crockery and 
a dangling frying-pan, some lockers to stow away stores; 
things like these, with a few books on a shelf affixed to the 
wall, composed the interior and gave it an aspect of home. 
A small window with shutters looked out on the sea, and 
an aperture opposite showed a sleeping-place with a fixed 
berth, more lockers, a storm lantern hanging from the 
beam, and a candlestick and book upon a chair. 

The man disappeared into the sleeping-place, reap¬ 
peared, and set about getting supper. The dog on the 
hearth thumped an expectant tail. The man fried bacon 
in the pan, and brought some ship’s biscuits from one of 
the lockers. Supper cooked, man and dog shared it to¬ 
gether—except the coffee which the man brewed in a little 
pot, and drank black and strong from a thick white cup. 
The meal finished, the dog stretched himself in blinking 
content before the fire. The man tidied up, threw more 
wood on the fire, and sat down with a book and pipe. 

The book was Swinburne’s Poems and Ballads. It 
opened in his hands at “A Ballad of Burdens.” He read: 

“The burden of dead faces. Out of sight 

And out of love, beyond the reach of hands.” 

He read no further. The volume dropped unheeded 
from his hands as he sat there, staring sombrely into the 



4 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


flames. Thought is one of the few things which is free to 
all and can be pursued anywhere. This man had special 
facilities for it. His meditations were never interrupted. 
He had no companion save his dog, to whom speech had 
been denied, and he was cut off from all human compan¬ 
ionship by three hundred miles of ocean now lashing and 
roaring in fury against the obsidian cliffs of the island 
where he lived alone. 

The chain of circumstances which brought him there 
stretched nine months back to a colonial city of wooden 
houses perched in crazy tiers around the steep slopes of 
a circular bay. Destiny’s agent w r as a spectacled clerical 
cog in the Colonial Government’s official machinery; head 
clerk in the Conservations Department which administered 
the barren islands marked on official maps as portion of 
the Colonial Government’s “dominions.” In the depart¬ 
ment’s gift was the vacant curatorship of Bird Sanctuary 
Island, with such advantages as £100 per annum, 
quarters, rations, and a free life bestowed. In spite of 
these benefits and a deplorable increase in local unemploy¬ 
ment, there was not a rush of applicants for the job. To 
be quite accurate, there was none at all until James Ray¬ 
mond applied. The official cog regarded him dubiously. 
The applicant had a dubious and reckless air. He ap¬ 
peared to be of a gentlemanly derelict type which unfortu¬ 
nately found its way to the Utopia of Colonial Govern¬ 
ments from the islands or heaven knew where by every 
incoming boat. The official mind considered. The man 
looked hard up, but he was young, with a strong frame. 
The post had to be filled. The Leader of the Opposition 
had blandly interrogated the Government about it. Yes; 
he would have to do. There was no one else. The place 
was hundreds of miles from anywhere, and the periodical 
calls of the lighthouse steamer were irregular. The last 


ALONE 


5 


curator had gone mad in the solitudes—was found hop¬ 
ping about the cliffs, suffering from the hallucination 
that he was an albatross. With this episode in his mind 
the head clerk felt it expedient to explain to the new 
applicant that the post was in the nature of a lonely one. 
There had been an assistant curator at one time, but the 
assistant had been abolished in response to public demand 
for national retrenchment. 

“But there’ll be a dog,” the head clerk proceeded to 
explain, “and a dog is such company. The Government 
steamer calls every four months with stores. The curator 
is absolutely his own master, subject to the preparation 
of periodical reports to this department. The duties 
are light, but sufficient to keep the mind occupied. On 
the whole, a healthy, open-air life, if you do not mind 
a little loneliness—to which, no doubt, one soon becomes 
accustomed.” 

“I’m not afraid of solitude,” the applicant replied. “I 
prefer it to humanity. I’ll go, if you’ll have me.” 

The head clerk rolled up a large scale map on whose 
glittering surface the group of islands appeared like 
specks dusted from a pepper-pot. 

“The Department may be disposed to consider your 
application. Your name is-” 

“Raymond—James Raymond.” 

“Very well, Mr. Raymond. Would you be prepared 
to go to the island by the lighthouse steamer leaving on 
Thursday?” 

“Yes.” 

Six days later the Ascanius crept cautiously through 
the sea of tombstone rocks towards the wooded eminence 
which showed like the brown back of a squatting camel 
above the glittering cliffs of Sanctuary Island. The 
steamer anchored well out, dark smoke floating sullenly 



6 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


from her white funnel, while a boat conveyed James Ray¬ 
mond, a dog, and four months’ stores through the treach¬ 
erous reefs to the island’s one landing-place. Captain 
Marquet was glad when the task was accomplished and 
his boat safely back from that place of fearful currents, 
whirlpools, and implacable cliffs on which the sea broke 
with menacing roar. The steamer’s head swung round 
to the south. She went on her way, leaving the new 
curator to the solitude of the South Pacific, his stores 
scattered about the rocks above w’hich seabirds circled 
in screaming flocks. Captain Marquet carried away with 
him, as a last impression of his passenger, the memory of 
a tall figure standing motionless on the shingle beach, the 
dog at his side, watching the departing ship. 

That was nine months ago. The Ascanius had paid 
two of her periodic visits to the island since. She had 
delivered stores, but no letters. Apparently James Ray¬ 
mond had no friends; no one in the world who cared 
whether he lived or died. Captain Marquet, a sociable 
gossiping soul, was worried over a man who had nobody 
to write to him: neither friends, relations, chick nor child. 
He regarded such an existence as rather sinister. It 
even excited his indignation. He retailed it as a piece of 
remarkable news to the lighthouse keepers on his southern 
circuit. “Not so much as a newspaper,” he added em¬ 
phatically, in fitting climax. The grave bearded faces of 
the lighthouse men reflected his own astonishment, as in a 
mirror. They received letters and newspapers—w T hole 
bundles of them—by every visit of the Ascanius. Friends 
who had not perhaps mastered all the grades of penman¬ 
ship could at least manage to address a newspaper. To 
their simple way of thinking such a state of affairs was 
insupportable. The keeper of Cape Bleak Lighthouse, 
the southernmost fingerpost to the Ice Barrier, expressed 


ALONE 


7 


the view that the island caretaker must be as lonely as a 
skua gull. His eye rested on one of those Antarctic har¬ 
bingers as he spoke. Captain Marquet’s glance followed 
the flight of the bird. “He’s a damned queer lot,” he said, 
referring to Raymond. “I took him out there, and I 
ought to know. An Englishman, I should say with a re¬ 
served and superior air—this damned keeper of a bird 
preserve. I told my chaps when they landed his stores to 
bring him back in the boat for a final taste, but he sent 
back word that he preferred to stay ashore. He’ll wait 
a long time before I ask him again. Mark my words, 
he’s a queer lot. Never a letter, never a newspaper! It 
might mean—lots of things.” 

His listeners concurred, and Captain Marquet and the 
Ascanius went on to the next lighthouse to tell the story 
anew. He w r as a welcome visitor among the keepers. 
They, at least, did not decline his offer to have a taste. 

3 

James Raymond lived his solitary life on the island 
unaware that he was the cause of gossip among southern 
lighthouses. He had his duties: birds to look after dur¬ 
ing the day, reports and maps to prepare at night. The 
island had not been proclaimed a sanctuary for the sea- 
fowl which swooped and cried around its shining cliffs. 
They needed no sanctuary, no help from man. Their 
screams mockingly derided that idea. By proclamation 
and adoption it was a home for softer inland species of 
rare plumage, officially protected from the rapacity of 
collectors and agents of the plumage trade. It was an 
ingenious method of preserving such birds from extinc¬ 
tion, and one worthy of the paternal instincts of a Co¬ 
lonial Government. The island was too far away for 


8 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


agents, and so difficult to land upon that any collector 
tempted thither for specimens was more likely to add 
himself to Death’s unrivalled collection than enrich his 
own. 

The island showed glittering teeth to the sea, but the 
eminence above the cliffs was seamed with sheltered and 
wooded ravines where these birds from the mainland ac¬ 
climatised and increased. Nature had made a sanctuary 
of the island before the Colonial and paternal Govern¬ 
ment hit upon the idea. Birds were sometimes blown there 
by the winds, and deposited—soaked and flustered bun¬ 
dles of feathers—in this haven of refuge where abun¬ 
dance awaited them. They never attempted to leave the 
island again. They knew the difficulties of that journey. 
Brought there on the wings of the wind, they stayed and 
multiplied, in the care of the curator. The rare birds— 
those specially protected by Act of Parliament—were 
his chief solicitude. He fed them and guarded their nests, 
restored impulsive nestlings to anxious parents, and shot 
the wild cats which stalked them. The dog had been 
trained to warn him when these sly creatures with yel¬ 
low eyes were prowling after his charges, and tracks he 
had made from his hut took him quickly to every part of 
the island. 

The birds repaid his care by singing to him, or it may 
be their song was an outpouring of gratitude for their 
safe journey to that spot. They sang of mornings, in a 
grove at the back of the hut, starting the new day with a 
tremulous fluted chorus which awakened their custodian 
from sleep. They had learnt to know and trust him, and 
they watched for his coming with fearless bright eyes, 
hopping and fluttering around him for the breakfast he 
scattered at his feet. There were birds with most gor¬ 
geous plumage, of a kind he had never seen, and smaller 


ALONE 


9 


homelier sorts which reminded him of English songsters, 
but they were all happy together in their island home, 
and preserved the amenities of bird life with an innocent 
decorum. They had nothing to fear except the wild cats, 
and James Raymond hunted them remorselessly. 

He had other duties to perform besides looking after 
his birds of song and bright plumage. The neighbouring 
islands had to be visited in the boat which was moored 
to the landing-place. He might have felt justified in 
disregarding an order which seemed merely to demon¬ 
strate the futility of the official mind which had framed 
his duties (as set out in the official White Paper which 
the chief clerk of the Conservations Department had given 
him), but he never did. He conscientiously performed 
all the tasks scheduled in the White Paper, and therein 
Duty XXI was set out as follows: “Once in every four¬ 
teen days the curator shall inspect and report upon the 
well-being of the seabirds on the surrounding islands, 
and shall take any measures which may be deemed 
advisable.” The official mind had not indicated the na¬ 
ture of these measures, nor when the necessity for them 
was supposed to arise, James Raymond did not know 
either. But the order was clear, so once a fortnight he 
gravely “inspected” the rookeries (as he called them) of 
penguin and albatross on the rocks which rose from the 
sea around Sanctuary Island like monuments of some 
graveyard of the deep. 

It was a strange sight if anyone could have seen it, 
this tour of inspection of these southern solitudes made 
by a small motor-boat with a solitary figure steering, and 
a barking dog in the bow, darting perilously among the 
sounds and currents of those barren islets covered with 
hordes of shrieking and staring seabirds. There were 
gulls, albatrosses, penguins, nellies, mollyhawks, whale- 


10 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


birds, shags, petrels: every kind and species of seabird 
inhabited this mysterious region of deep waters and 
empty islands, which stretched, big and little, to the dis¬ 
tant horizon that concealed the southern ice. It was 
their home. 

The clouds of seabirds which returned to the islands at 
night from afar imposed on the senses as an event mon¬ 
strous and incredible. James Raymond scaled the ob¬ 
sidian cliffs of his island every evening to watch the sight. 
It seemed impossible that the world could harbour so 
many birds. The air was dark with them, the sea 
swarmed with them. There was something vaguely dis¬ 
turbing to the imagination in the contemplation of that 
feathered multitude. The desolate sea of rocky islets 
might have been the assembling place of every seabird on 
earth, a place beyond humanity’s ken, whether they re¬ 
paired nightly for some secret purpose of their own. 
From dusk to dark they kept arriving as though in 
obedience to an imperative command. From unknown 
parts they dropped from the sky or came from the ocean 
to form motionless roosting platoons upon the glistening 
rocks or dreary stretches of dark sand, and their unend¬ 
ing cries were borne to the dweller on the obsidian island 
like the chirping of a great host of cicadae, rising and 
falling with the melancholy cadence of a goblin choir in¬ 
toning a liturgy of woe. 


4 

It was a strange life for a human soul, with nothing 
to break the eternal round of solitude save the rare visits 
of the Ascanius , bringing rations—but no letters. Cap¬ 
tain Marquet had been known to express the opinion that 
the man who called himself James Raymond had sought 


ALONE 


11 


this remote spot to hide himself from justice under an 
assumed name. Captain Marquet’s imagination could 
not conceive of a man preferring to live alone, sufficient 
unto himself, like a god. Yet this world holds such men. 
Or it may have been that nobody was interested enough 
in James Raymond to care whether he was alive or dead. 
Again, the world holds many such men. But, whatever 
the reason, the curator of Sanctuary Island was revealed 
by his own act as one cut off from his kind, holding no 
further communion with them. 

It was a strange life, but the man who now sat staring 
into the glowing fire had not found it an unhappy one. 
He had gained a measure of peace—of respite. Nature 
had done much for him since he had been set down with 
his stores on the landing-place nine months before. She 
had redeemed the good body she had given him at birth. 
Like a stern and righteous mother she had taken him in 
hand. He came to her a wreck, and she had made him a 
man again: at least in outward seeming. The sea and 
wind had buffeted out of him the physical deterioration 
of twelve wandering years. The rough, open-air life had 
hardened his muscles, braced his nerves, made keen and 
clear the English blue of his eyes, and tanned his fair 
English skin into the deep brown of perfect health. 

He had sought sanctuary in this distant island with 
the birds, and he had found it. But who shall say where 
man gains peace? There were none to know if this man’s 
spirit was at rest. The flickering light in the hut cast 
gleams on his moody and weary face. Without was 
blackness and solitude. The dog, muzzle thrust out on 
crossed paws, slept at his feet. Outside the storm reached 
its height, sweeping over the island in the darkness with 
the inarticulate roar of elemental rage, a shriek run¬ 
ning through the uproar as if lost souls were being tor- 



12 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


tured aloft without respite. The hut shook in the terri¬ 
ble violence of the gale, and the swinging lamp oscillated 
in sympathy. Even the sea-birds might well have hugged 
their roosts on such a night. 

The man by the fire nodded. He had spent the day 
making a new track to the top of the island, and he was 
wearier than he knew. Slumber, deep and profound, 
overcame him as he sat there. He slept the sleep of com¬ 
plete exhaustion—slept undisturbed throughout the 
storm. 

The hours slipped past. The hut fire smouldered down 
to a faint glimmer, then expired in black dissolution. 
The storm outside began to abate, with moments of un¬ 
natural stillness in the midst of its strife, as though mys¬ 
teriously pausing to listen. 

It was at such a moment that some shadowy perception 
reached the inner consciousness of the sleeper, and 
awakened him with a start. 


CHAPTER II 


THE COMING OF THE DEAD 

1 

H E awoke with a beating heart and a sense of fear. 
It seemed to him that he had been brought out of 
that profound sleep by a terrible cry. A dream of 
course, but how vivid! The scream was still echoing and 
ringing in his ears. He looked around him, and encoun¬ 
tered the gleaming eyes of the dog, staring at him in 
terror. The door flew open, as at a push from an unseen 
hand, and the hut was filled with rushing air. In the gulf 
of darkness beyond the open door a violet arc suddenly 
appeared, flashed and curved across the sky, hung sus¬ 
pended for a moment, and then as swiftly died away. 
Raymond sprang to his feet with a quick perception of 
the truth. A ship was in distress among the rocks of 
Sanctuary Island. 

He lit a lantern and went out, followed by the dog. A 
late moon, scudding low, shone faintly on waves leaping 
like grey wolves at the throat of the sky. Raymond made 
his way to the landing-place. The sea was dashing over 
it and breaking with a hollow roar far up the shingle 
beach. 

His eye discerned nothing but a dishevelled expanse of 

water pierced by naked rocks. There were no more 

rockets and no further cries, if, indeed, he had been 

awakened by a cry. Once he thought he saw a dark mass 

in the boiling surf at the foot of the cliffs, but before he 

could be sure it was gone, sucked into one of the caverns 

13 


14 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


at the base. Wreckage? It was possible. No ship could 
live long among those rocks, in that sea. 

Raymond held his watch to the lantern. Four o’clock! 
Nearly dawn. Fie stood there, waiting for day to come. 

Daybreak revealed a subsiding sea still running high. 
No more—at first; only the familiar spectacle of an end¬ 
less grey immobility, islets, and crying birds. Then 
Raymond’s eyes, dwelling far out, fell upon something 
floating in the distant water with seabirds sailing over¬ 
head. A mere black speck at first, it gradually grew 
larger, pointing a course direct for the island, at one 
moment poised high on the white crest of a wave, then 
slipping smoothly down into a polished green hollow. 
Nearer it came, until it disclosed itself to the watcher on 
the shore as a piece of wreckage supporting the body of a 
drowned man. Merely a few planks bound together, with 
an upright spar flying a fluttering strip of canvas as a 
signal for one beyond all aid. The drowned man had 
lashed himself to the spar, and seemed in the act of guid¬ 
ing his flimsy raft towards the landing-place. The sea¬ 
birds circled the wreckage with loud screams, and in 
the unstable water the corpse bowed gravely and repeat¬ 
edly to the man on the beach, as though soliciting the 
honour of his further acquaintance. 

The strange cortege swept inward, bobbed through the 
broken water of the reef, and entered the narrow channel 
which led to the landing-place, as if steered by a hand 
which had not lost its seaman’s cunning. But it was a 
long while making harbour. Again and again it was 
washed back into the outer water. Whenever this hap¬ 
pened the corpse bowed deeply, almost apologetically, to 
the waiting figure on the brink, and the gulls screamed in 
wild mockery at the dead man’s inability to steer a course 
over a sea which they rode with such effortless ease. But 


THE COMING OF THE DEAD 


15 


with dogged pertinacity the wreckage always returned, 
tossing in the angry foam, advancing, retreating, the 
corpse bowing, the birds screaming. At length a great 
wave swept it almost to the landing-place, and Raymond 
dashed into the water and hauled it ashore. 

On the oozing beach he bent over the wreckage and dis¬ 
entangled the body of a man w T ith brown skin, dark hair, 
and glazed dark eyes which now reproached an indifferent 
sky. The dungarees and blackened hands suggested he 
had been a fireman on the lost ship. On his naked and 
hairy breast was tattooed a woman’s face and the words 
“Good Luck.” 

“ ‘Good Luck’! That was a talisman which failed,” 
murmured Raymond. 

The dog sniffed the body timidly, looked up at Ray¬ 
mond, and whined. 

One dead hand clutched a ship’s mail-bag; clutched it 
tightly, as if the sentiment of duty persisted in that 
simple mind after death; was, indeed, stronger than 
death. The dead eyes stared awfully at Raymond as he 
wrested the bag from his grasp, as though warning him 
to desist. 

Raymond shook the contents of the bag on the sand. 
Letters and newspapers scattered at his feet. They were 
soaked with sea-w r ater, which had loosened envelopes and 
wrappers and blurred the writing. Listlessly he turned 
over these human docmnents which had gone to wreck 
with the ship. Most of them were mere pulp, but here 
and there some loving message or homely phrase started 
out from the soaked sheets. A spongy bank-note pledged 
the Governor and Company of the Bank of England to 
pay the bearer on demand the sum of Five Pounds. A 
shining lock of baby hair stirred wistfully in the breeze. 
Remittance and token—never to be delivered. 


16 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


There was one packet of newspapers, tightly bound, 
which had partly escaped the effect of the sea. Raymond 
picked up the bundle and turned it over. English news¬ 
papers ! He cut the string which held them together. 
They fell apart, and from their midst a letter fluttered 
down on the wet rocks. It dropped with the superscrip¬ 
tion uppermost. 

At the sight of the address Raymond uttered a sharp 
cry, staring down at the letter with features whitening 
rapidly into semblance of the dead man’s. Motionless 
as a figure in stone he stood, his eyes fixed upon the fallen 
envelope at his feet, one hand outstretched before him 
with the unconscious gesture of a sleeper trying to ward 
off an incredible vision. His face bore the stamp of 
amazement, agony, and a certain terror. 

The dog whimpered anxiously and a gull near the 
corpse gave him a beady glance, but he did not stir. 
Once his eye wandered from the letter to the dead mes¬ 
senger who had borne it to the island, but immediately 
returned to the white packet at his feet. 

At length he came to himself and regained something 
of his former composure. With the dazed effort of a 
man emerging from oblivion, he stooped and picked the 
letter up. He turned it over with a troubled air, like 
one who still doubted its reality. His hands shook a 
little, but his eyes shone with some deeper feeling than 
mere excitement. The envelope he held bore signs of much 
travelling, and had been sent on and re-addressed from 
distant parts of the world. “Try Johannesburg”; “Try 
Singapore”; “Try Hong-Kong”; “Try Port Moresby”; 
“Try Honolulu”; “Try Papeete”; “Try Sydney”; “Try 
Auckland.” These places started out like landmarks 
from shoals of directions to obscurer parts, where ad¬ 
venture quests romance afar from tourists’ tracks, seek- 


THE COMING OF THE DEAD 


17 


ing her vanishing footfalls with stout and eager heart. 
Addresses like these covered the letter back and front, 
weaving a fantastic border around the original direction 
in a female hand to “Robert Lynngarth, Esq., Poste Res- 
tante, Durban, Natal. Or Please Forward.” 

“Please Forward!” “Priere de faire suivre!” That 
was an injunction which had been well obeyed since the 
distant day when the letter was first posted in England. 
The postal authorities of many countries had done their 
best to carry out the behest. They had searched for 
Robert Lynngarth with a zeal which was an everlasting 
rebuke to all who sneer at the efficiency of Government 
service. Postal departments had pursued the wandering 
figure of Robert Lynngarth through the East and the 
Southern Hemisphere for years. They had stamped and 
franked his letter on from Africa, Asia, the East, and the 
Islands. It had sought him in places far apart: Bang¬ 
kok, the Solomons, Broome, Invercargill; been rejected, 
and gone on its weary way again, the Flying Dutchman 
of the post offices of the world. 

The ocean had sought to destroy it, but it had sur¬ 
vived shipwreck. Then the sea had relented, and had suc¬ 
ceeded where the postal systems had failed. The sea’s 
dead messenger, riding ashore on his raft, had delivered 
the letter to one who had a better right to open it than 
anyone else. 

This the man known as James Raymond seemed re¬ 
luctant to do. Twice he essayed the task; hesitated, de¬ 
sisted, and finally placed the letter in the breast of his 
shirt. He then took off his coat and spread it over the 
prone form on the sand. The shrouding accomplished 
and the corpse decently covered, he turned away in the 
direction of the hut, the dog trotting behind. 


18 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


2 

Inside the hut his hesitation disappeared. He drew out 
the letter and laid it and the newspapers on the table 
before him. He examined the journals first. There were 
copies of the Times and Morning Post nearly nine years 
old. A blurred ink-mark around the “Personal” column 
of the Times caught his eye. It indicated an advertise¬ 
ment seeking news of Robert Lynngarth, who had left 
England three years before, and it offered a handsome 
reward for any information concerning him. Any infor¬ 
mation (which would be treated as confidential) was to be 
sent to a firm of London solicitors at Gray’s Inn. A 
similar announcement appeared in the Morning Post, also 
marked. 

Pushing the newspapers from him, Raymond picked 
up the letter and opened it. 

Two enclosures fell out. One was in the writing of the 
address on the envelope; the second and smaller had been 
folded within it, and was addressed to “Dear Robert” in 
a childish and unformed hand. James Raymond looked 
from one to the other with tense eyes. Then he caught 
up the larger sheet and unfolded it. As he did so a scrap 
of paper fell from it and fluttered unheeded to the floor. 
He bent his head over the letter and read: 

“My Darling Son, 

“Why have you not written to let me know where 
you are? Since you left England three years ago I have 
had only one brief line to say that you had reached Dur¬ 
ban and were going to the Zambesi. My letters to you 
remain unanswered. Perhaps you have not received them, 
but that is not a reason for not writing to your mother, 
in spite of what you said when you went away. I am 


THE COMING OF THE DEAD 


19 


heartbroken by your silence. Cannot the past be lived 
down? Must you keep away from your mother and your 
home for ever? I feel sure that your father would for¬ 
give you now, and overlook whatever you have done, if 
you would only return and ask his forgiveness. Come 
back, then, dear, and do so. It is my daily and nightly 
prayer that you will. Is it pride or lack of money that 
is keeping you silent? If you need money, you have only 
to cable to my solicitor.” 

There was more, but the sea had obliterated the sec¬ 
ond sheet. A word here and a phrase there were all that 
James Raymond could make out. 

“. . . growing anxious ... see you again ... I 
fear . . . doctor . . . wish . . . reconciled to your 
father . . . remember ...” 

It was impossible to read any more. 

He perused the first portion of the letter again before 
turning to the little note in the childish hand: 

“Deae Bob, 

“Why don’t you come back? I miss you dreadfully, 
and so does Crikey. He goes to your room every morning 
to look for you, and when I tell him that you’ll be back 
some day he looks up at me with wistful eyes, just as 
though he understood. He chased a rabbit yesterday. I 
caught five trouts at the alder pool to-day, but I don’t 
like fishing without you. So come back quick and let’s 
have a good time together before I’m sent to the horrid 
old school. 

“Your little Lady Fibbets. 

“Postscript. If you’re in Africa will you bring me 
some stamps with lions on them? But don’t wait to 
collect them. I’d sooner have you without the lions.— 
Kathleen.” 


20 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


Raymond sat still for a time in deep reverie. Then, 
like one awakened by importunate reality, he sprang to 
his feet and strode to his sleeping-place. He speedily 
returned carrying a worn leather case, which he placed 
on the table and opened. 

Within were clothes and linen and other things: a 
small ivory Buddha, an inlaid box of Chinese mosaic, two 
nuggets, a piece of dull green jade fantastically carved 
into the shape of a bird—such odds and ends as a man 
accumulates in the course of unsettled wanderings in 
strange parts. He tossed these objects aside and ulti¬ 
mately found what he sought in some letters carefully 
tied together and faded with age. He opened the slender 
packet carefully. The embossed crest and engraved ad¬ 
dress were those of the letter he had just read: Redways, 
The Hintons, Hants. 

He read the letters in the packet twice, thrice, before 
restoring them to the leather case. As he did so another 
small packet at the bottom of the case met his eye. He 
lifted it up. Two photographs and some newspaper cut¬ 
tings fell out. 

One w r as a photograph of a barren promontory beside 
a desolate sea, with numberless wooden crosses scattered 
among the dunes and tall sea-grass. Across this picture 
some words were written. They read: “Robert Lynn- 
garth buried here, March 10, 1915.” 

He gazed at the other picture longer. It was the por¬ 
trait of a girl in a quaint costume of the stage. She was 
made up to depict a mouse, tail and paws complete, her 
dainty face peeping playfully out from a hood with 
pointed ears, her two hands held playfully beneath the 
chin in semblance of a mouse’s paws. A dainty picture, 
poorly taken, but the unskilful photographer had not 
been able to rob the girl of her beauty, nor destroy the 


THE COMING OF THE DEAD 


21 


wistful appeal of the eyes looking up at the face of the 
man now bent over them. The photograph was inscribed, 
in straggling and unformed writing, “To Dear Jim.” 

The yellow newspaper cuttings praised the bravery of 
Corporal James Raymond, Fourteenth Light Horse, at 
Gallipoli. 

He returned these mementoes to the case thoughtfully, 
and remained motionless in the centre of the hut, his 
mind dwelling upon the strange event which had shattered 
his island peace. Through the doorway he could see the 
covered form of the dead seaman, who had been washed 
ashore. The body lay near the edge of the sea, with a 
large shag standing on one leg in the shallow water, re¬ 
garding the corpse curiously. The bird, speckled head 
sunk upon breast, dark greenish eyes fixed sharply on the 
still outline beneath the coat, seemed to be meditating 
deeply upon the reason for its presence there. The man 
within the hut felt it was beyond the intelligence of any 
living creature to fathom that. There was some secret 
intention behind this apparent caprice of Chance not to 
be guessed or understood. 

“How did this thing happen?” he asked aloud. 

His eye dwelt on the corpse, which gave no sign. His 
thoughts swung round again. 

Could one resurrect the past and begin again? That 
was the ceaseless desire of humanity through the ages: 
to put back the clock of Time and begin once more. If 
a door were opened—miraculously and incredibly opened 
—what then? Robert Lynngarth was dead and buried. 
He had been buried on a field of battle years ago. Why 
awaken him? 

As he paced the hut in deep thought, his eye was 
caught by the sight of a slip of paper on the floor at his 
feet. He stooped and picked it up. It was a printed 


22 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


strip, neatly pasted on a small white sheet. He bent 
over it and read: 

“I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto 
him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before 
thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.” 

He scanned the text with a faint and almost saturnine 
smile touching his grave eyes and lips. Not the Prodigal, 
but Lazarus! “He that was dead came forth.” But was 
that wise? Did the living wish for the dead to return to 
life? Some might think they did, but how would they 
face the reality? Would the dead wish it themselves? 
Lazarus, now: how did he feel when that terrible com¬ 
mand, “Come forth!” thundered into his tomb and pierced 
his dead ears. Did he start up joyfully, or creep out re¬ 
luctantly, with longing backward glances at the place of 
his oblivion? Was his sisters’ joy tempered with awe? 
Did he steal homeward in his loosened grave-clothes, glid¬ 
ing through the quiet streets like the ghost he was, strain¬ 
ing dim eyes for his home, and knock? And what then? 
The inmates aroused from slumber, clutching each other, 
w r hispering, “That is Lazarus’s knock. . . .” 

He brooded over this picture, applying it to his own 
case. He had bought the peace of the grave at a terrible 
price. And now, in his living grave—tomb of his own 
seeking—the summons had reached him as it had reached 
Lazarus, destroying his sanctuary and beckoning him 
back to the world. A miracle had happened even greater 
than the raising of Lazarus. This thing, so incred¬ 
ible . . . 

Again he walked to the door of the hut, but this time 
he did not look towards the dead messenger of Chance, 
lying serenely still, his mission accomplished. His glance 
ranged over the groups of insignificant rocky islets scat¬ 
tered southward in heaving water as far as he could see, 



THE COMING OF THE DEAD 


23 


their uttermost pinnacles indistinct in shadow and veiled 
in flying foam. He knew the nearer ones as friends. It 
had been his diversion to name them with titles applicable 
and not dissonant—Rainbow Island, Babbling Island, 
Shadow Island, Breaksea Sound, The Island of Caves, 
Dusky Bay, Cape Albatross, Southward-Aye Group— 
such w r ere some of them. His eye dwelt on them now, 
thoughtfully, lingeringly. In a sense they were dear to 
him, as representing part of his effort to reconstruct a 
broken life and gain peace in this desolate spot. There 
was one gaunt crag w T ith three splintered peaks which he 
had called Calvary. He, too, had borne his cross to this 
place and found a measure of peace—the infinite restful¬ 
ness of solitude and the calming whisper of the sea. Then 
why, having gained that much, should he leave it to take 
up a burden from which he had shaken himself free, and 
return to the sordid contact of civilized life, to its hy¬ 
pocrisies, treacheries, and perfidy? 

“Come back, dear.” 

He turned sharply as if a voice had whispered these 
words in his ear. In a tender, pleading murmur it reached 
him again, dying away in a faint sob . . . “Come back, 
my son.” He stood in a rapt attitude, listening. 

Imagination! The island played tricks with the imag¬ 
ination. It was a place of mysterious sounds: faint 
echoes, sobbing whispers, and muffled calls. There was a 
petrel with a human note in its cry, long-drawn and plain¬ 
tive ; another which purred like a cat. Imagination, alas! 
And while he stood there dreaming his day’s work was 
waiting to be done. 

He lit the fire and fed the dog, but his own breakfast 
that morning was a scanty one. When the meal was 
finished he went down to the landing-place with a spade, 
and dug a grave in the shingle beach above high tide. 


24 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


The dog sat on the mound of sand watching him, and the 
sea lapped on the shingle beach. When the grave was 
dug he wrapped the body of the dead sailor in some sack¬ 
ing he had brought from the hut, and buried it. Alone 
once more in his solitude, the digger of the grave stood 
for a moment looking out upon the empty sea. Then he 
turned away to set about his work. But that day his 
mind was on other things. 


3 

During the day the wind fell away, and by evening the 
sea was almost calm. 

As dusk fell he climbed to his accustomed place on the 
brow of the cliffs, and stood motionless on the brink 
watching the sun go down. 

How often had he seen night descend on the waters, 
bringing with it a stillness so profound that he felt like 
the one soul left alive on earth! How many nights had 
he lain awake in the hut listening to the breakers thun¬ 
dering against the obsidian cliffs. His days and nights 
went past in quick succession there, with little to mark 
their flight. In that solitary existence small things up¬ 
lifted him. On calm nights he would stand for hours 
listening to the enticing grave murmur of the sea—a 
murmur which begged forgiveness for past treachery and 
future betrayals. The music and the solitude filled him 
with peace, profound and thoughtful, and uplifted him 
with a wondering exaltation which he did not seek to 
fathom. A single star, burning in the night above, 
brought him joy, and the birth of each day in the serene 
emptiness of his world came like the gentle rekindling of 
hope in a darkened spirit. 

But this night was different. Outwardly, the scene 


THE COMING OF THE DEAD 


25 


was unaltered: a dipping sun, moving waters, clouds of 
seabirds settling to rest. But he himself was changed. 
His soul was no longer at peace. A turmoil of feeling 
seethed within him, tinging the solemn and darkening sol¬ 
itude with something vaguely menacing. He was haunted 
by visions of the past, and assailed by the phantoms of 
his own unrest. His eyes dwelt on the familiar setting 
of sky and sea with a troubled glance—with a glance 
which was worldly. It was the look of a man marooned 
and abandoned. 

The white albatross flew overhead. It was a rare and 
beautiful specimen of great size, so conspicuous in its 
perfect albinism that it could be distinguished among 
thousands—a white archangel of a bird. He had always 
watched for it hitherto, but this night it swept over 
unnoticed. 

As he stood on the cliff edge in a reverie a ship ap¬ 
peared as though by magic on the dim and fading hori¬ 
zon—a toy shape in the immense background of sea and 
sky. He fixed his eyes upon it. The setting sun, shooting 
out a last trail of orange light, fell behind the rim of the 
horizon and silhouetted it like a boat cup of white paper; 
in reality, a steamer with a white funnel. The man on the 
cliffs knew it for the Ascanius, with the garrulous Cap¬ 
tain Marquet in charge, making for his island with stores. 

Standing there with shaded eyes, watching the steamer 
moving in the faint gleam through water which now 
showed purple in the coming night, the thought came to 
him quite suddenly that he must leave the island and re¬ 
turn to England. Fate was stronger than human will, 
and ruled human destiny. No matter what the future 
held, he must go. The chance which had brought the 
letter to the island was winged by some unseen force 
which he did not care to withstand. 



CHAPTER in 


ENGLAND 


F "TE stood outside the Mecca of all the wanderers 
"1 of the earth, looking around him. 

Charing Cross affects returned Englishmen 
differently. Such things are a matter of temperament. 
In the mind of the man known in another hemisphere as 
James Raymond, but whose steamer trunks were labelled 
Robert Lynngarth, the feeling was one of complete isola¬ 
tion. Never on his island had he felt so lonely. He 
stared at the throng of pedestrians rushing past. He 
wondered what was stirring in the imaginations hidden in 
that endless sea of pallid, care-worn faces. He wondered 
whether they were content with life—with their narrow, 
crowded lot. Perhaps the kingdom of adventure dwelt 
in their breasts like the kingdom of heaven. These droves 
of city and suburban dwellers might experience adven¬ 
tures infinitely more exciting and alluring than befell 
those who went in search of them. 

No—that was too far-fetched. Londoners were too 
timid, too disciplined to law and order, to be lawless 
even in their dreams. Absurd to expect it! They were 
the product of their environment, as completely as a 
troop of blacks in a Papuan swamp were the product of 
theirs. Civilization and security—these things were de¬ 
vised for tame minds. 

He continued to look about him with a listless air, like 
an incurious ghost freshly risen from the grave, with the 

feeling, indeed, that he had as little in common with these 

26 




ENGLAND 27 

people and their worldly preoccupations as a disembodied 
spirit. At that moment he recalled the island with re¬ 
gret. He pictured the waves lapping against the 
wrinkled cliffs, the seabirds soaring overhead. But here! 
His eye fell on a group of prosperous men, red-faced, 
gorged, talking with the fictitious geniality of good food 
and wine. It was evident they had been lunching well at 
their club. He had belonged to three clubs in the old 
days, twelve years ago. There were no clubs on Sanctu¬ 
ary Island, unless the penguins had one. They were cer¬ 
tainly self-important and solemn enough to form clubs. 
They wore black and white suits too . . . 

He laughed aloud at the notion. A policeman on duty 
near looked at him suspiciously, with obvious doubt on 
his face whether a man laughing in Charing Cross w r as a 
fool or a rogue. Robert Lynngarth flushed at his glance, 
beckoned a taxi-cab, and told the driver to take him to 
Waterloo. 

In the recesses of the vehicle he savagely rated himself 
upon his folly. More accurately it might be said that 
James Raymond reproached Robert Lynngarth. Per¬ 
haps it was only fitting that a dual personality went with 
his two names. There was the reckless, impulsive and 
passionate Robert Lynngarth. That w^as the natural 
man, returning home unchanged after twelve years’ ab¬ 
sence. In Robert Lynngarth’s saner moments he was 
controlled by a second and different being, cautious, 
worldly-wise, who regarded Robert Lynngarth’s extrava¬ 
gances with cold disapproval. This was James Raymond, 
with twelve years’ experience of the rough places of the 
earth. As a rule, the impulsiveness of the first outran 
the discretion of the second, as the man who now called 
himself Robert Lynngarth was aware to his cost. 

He had returned to England on the previous day, and 


28 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


now, after a short, rapid drive through crowded streets, 
he found himself in an empty first-class smoking com¬ 
partment of a train at Waterloo, with a single ticket for 
Winchester in his pocket. He had left England as a boy 
of twenty-two and returned at thirty-four no richer than 
he went away, unless one could count memories as gain. 

He was rich in those, at least: memories of islands, 
wild coasts, bold headlands, palm-tufted beaches, man¬ 
grove swamps, slow-w T inding rivers, sullen forests. These 
things he had seen, and others. The restlessness of life in 
southern seas was in his blood; strange pictures were 
painted on the back of his mind. He had been in most of 
those remote spots where white adventurers struggle for 
the capricious nods of Fortune. Broome, Thursday 
Island, New Guinea, the Malay Archipelago, and farther 
afield still. His mind roved over tropic climes, sunlit 
isles, strange nights. ... Few men had gone farther 
and fared worse. He had tried his hand at many occupa¬ 
tions. He had been gold-miner, pearl-fisher, lumberer, 
sailor, and other things. There was that business of the 
trading schooner. By Jove, he had chased some wild 
geese in his time. 

And now he was back in England, rich in memories 
only, a hard-up wanderer in a land full of rich slugs on 
the wall. Migrant or slug, what did it matter in the 
long run, when all was said and done? He had returned 
to England for one purpose only and his stay would be 
brief. What had his broken life in common with the or¬ 
dered human enterprise of his native land: that place of 
common sense, tenacity of effort, and ambitions? These 
things and their fruits were nothing to him—now. There 
was another memory, earlier still, which preyed on his 
mind like a gnawing pain. His brow darkened now as he 
thought of it. Was he wise to come back, and face that? 


ENGLAND 29 

Like a querulous spectre it assailed him, reproaching him 
for his folly. 

As the train was moving off a girl got in. He raised 
his eyes and took in her clear outline against the far win¬ 
dow of the opposite seat. She was casting curious glances 
at him. He was a noticeable personality, though he was 
not aware of it. His tall figure, brown skin, blue eyes, 
widely opened as though staring into long distances, 
made up an appearance not ordinarily seen in an English 
train. Their glances met, and she dropped her eyes dis¬ 
creetly. He found himself speculating about her. Girls 
were girls, the wide world over. Glances from girls’ eyes 
were the prelude of most adventures truly worth having, 
whether the eyes were deep and slumberous, like black 
pools, or frank English blue. 

The girl by the window sat with her eyes demurely 
lowered on the pages of a book which she held in her 
gloved hand. He studied her covertly. There was some¬ 
thing about her which brought up another memory, 
stirred another pale phantom of the past. He could not 
exactly define it; some subtle, intangible charm in the 
bent head, brown sheen of hair above a white neck, a 
glimpse of straight brows bent over the pages—these 
things reminded him of the girl dressed as a mouse, 
whose photograph he had destroyed before leaving the 
island. She had been one of the divinely foolish ones. 

At the next station his fellow-passenger gathered to¬ 
gether her belongings and got out. He was left alone 
for the remainder of the journey: left alone to brood, if 
he so desired. But for him, and not before it was time, 
the spell of memory was broken. He banished his troop 
of ghosts, and set himself to contemplate the concrete 
fact of his return after all these years, and the reception 
which awaited him. 


30 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


There were taxi-cabs at the city of the Domesday 
Book, and a four-wheeler with an elderly driver leaning 
against a drooping horse in the shafts. The sight of a 
passenger among the taxi-cabs stirred the cabman into 
aggressive activity. He approached the prospective 
fare, whip in hand. His hoarse voice growled forth: 

“Give the old horse a chance, sir.” 

Lynngarth looked hard at him. The cabman returned 
the look with one moist red eye. 

“Do you know Hinton Hill?” 

“Do I know the ’Intons? Afore you was born! Jump 
m, sir. 

The cab rattled through the uneven grey streets, 
through the King’s Gate, and into the country-side. At 
sober speed the horse traversed a typical Hampshire 
landscape—yew-bordered lanes, stone bridges spanning 
shallow streams, a tiny hamlet, and then a Saxon village 
with open green and a sundial in the centre of the street. 
Beyond the village the dusty highway, streaked with the 
shadows of the roadside trees, rose in slow ascent. The 
horse fell from an unwilling trot into a crawling walk. 
Half-way up the drive the cabman brought the horse to 
a standstill. He thrust his head through the w r indow, 
and his voice was heard: 

“This yere is ’Inton ’Ill.” 

The horse turned a weary head in pathetic appeal 
against dragging his broken knees farther up the hill. 

“There’s a footpath across those fields, I think.” 

“Private—no traspassers,” responded the cabman 
gruffly. “Leads to Redways,” he added, as an after¬ 
thought. 

“Redways?” 

“Sir Roger Lynngarth’s place. He’s the great man— 
hereabouts.” His whip indicated a distant line of vener- 



ENGLAND 


31 


able yews, fringing a grey mansion with a high-pitched 
roof in a green curtain of trees. 

“Very well. You can go back.” 

The road from the top of the hill drooped into a sleepy 
valley, then curved uphill again. On his right hand 
meadows divided by hedges stretched to a little river with 
a wood on the farther side. A stile led from the road 
across the meadows, and he crossed over into the fields. 

In a quarter of an hour he reached the woods, and 
plunged into their quiet depths like one accustomed to 
the way. Within it was dark and still; hanging branches 
veiled the light, his feet made no sound on the green path. 
He walked noiselessly on till the foliage thinned and the 
light fell through it, lessening the gloom. A patch of 
blue sky became visible, and then a larger break revealed, 
at the bottom of a slope some hundreds of yards away, 
the house he had seen from the road. Gaunt and dark it 
stood on the distant flat, the afternoon sun falling on it, 
glinting its narrow mullioned windows. 

His view commanded the garden in front of the house, 
the ornamental park, everything far and near. He could 
even see the glowing colour of the flower-beds. As he 
looked a female figure appeared as if by magic in the gar¬ 
den, in the centre of the picture, as it were. At that dis¬ 
tance he could just discern her, but a moment or two 
later she came into plain sight, walking quickly up the 
slope, a small dark frisking object—a dog—running at 
her heels. 

He shrank back, hoping the dog would not discover 
him. She passed in front of his leafy screen. He re¬ 
mained unseen, but he saw her, a slight and slender shape, 
dressed in walking costume. Her face was hidden by a 
shady hat, but he noted her graceful figure, and the 
charming way in which she carried her little head. 


32 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


He emerged cautiously from his concealment, looking 
after her. A little distance from where he stood, close 
to the edge of the wood, was a ruined abbey, a mere frag¬ 
ment of masonry strangled by ivy and other parasitical 
growths. It was a feature of the landscape which filled 
the eye without attracting it. The girl walked towards 
it, and entered by the low wooden door. She turned to 
look for her dog, and Lynngarth had a momentary 
glimpse of a girlish face, and a pair of eyes, dark and 
clear. Then she disappeared within the gap of the 
doorway. 

“Who is she?” he murmured. “A visitor?” Then a 
thought flashed on him. “Can it be Lady Fibbets—Lady 
Fibbets, grown up, a woman?” he whispered. 

He shook his head doubtfully, trying to discern her 
vanished figure in the dim recesses of the old abbey. It 
could not be. Yet something told him that it was. 

Twelve years! It was his first confrontation with the 
visible transformation of time. With another backward 
glance at the abbey, he turned his steps resolutely down 
the slope in the direction of the house. 


CHAPTER IV 


REDWAYS 

A T Redways the first leaves had fallen, but it was 
still very beautiful that late summer afternoon. 
The woods were flecked with orange, the tall elms 
were shedding gold, the skull-caps were blue on the banks 
of the river. Redways, in setting of park and garden, 
was an integral part of the general harmony, and stood 
that test. From the turn in the carriage drive where 
the trees thinned out the mansion was revealed at closer 
range, early Tudor undoubtedly, commingled with later 
styles, wonderful, gabled, mullioned, grey. The loveliness 
of grey Gothic in a setting of green and gold made you 
catch your breath and miss something disquieting about 
the house itself. Set in fair English woodland, mellowed 
by English sunshine—how could one be critical at first 
sight? You overlooked it also in the glory of the garden 
before the terraced front, encircled by grave hedges of 
clipped yew: an old garden of circular beds, pink and 
white borders, deep green lawns, ornamental clumps with 
peeping fauns, flagged paths, urns, an old sundial, and 
a central fishpond, filled by a spouting dolphin, held 
aloft by a bronze nymph chastely veiled around the 
middle in accordance with the moral standard of British 
art. 

The trace of disquiet was there, nevertheless. If not 

immediately perceptible, it reached the seeing eye in the 

long run, conveying some remote impression of unbalanced 

design or distorted architecture—the impress of a fantas- 

33 



34 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


tic mind—which brooded over the old place like a shadow. 
It was not much: an unusual tilt in the high-pitched 
angles, gable windows glinting wickedly askew, a front 
elevation raised, the rear of the house sunk in hollow. 
What did these things mean, if a house is the expression 
of the designer’s mind? Nature, unable to answer, had 
sought to cover the unrest, as far as she could reach, with 
her peaceful festooning. The gabled windows were deep 
in ivy; honeysuckle, cream and pink, covered the grey 
walls, and in the still scented air of the garden you forgot 
such things as an English wunter and a sunless north 
front. 

Inside, the suggestion of different periods was more 
apparent. The great staircase probably dated from the 
Restoration period. Inigo Jones was said to have had a 
hand in some of the later decorations, but that was merely 
tradition, although the work bore more than a trace of the 
master’s design. Different owners at different periods 
had carried out remodelling and interior decorations— 
plenty of both. More recently, electric light, hot-water 
pipes, and other modern devices had made their appear¬ 
ance. They were like paint upon the cheek of an elderly 
beauty, with something of the same effect on the eye of the 
beholder. A semblance of tottering jauntiness did little 
to lessen the effect of time. The interior, fashioned in 
the days when good oak was plentiful in England, re¬ 
mained uncompromisingly Tudor—early Tudor at that 
—despite modern innovations, Elizabethan and Jaco¬ 
bean additions; sombre, certainly, but beautiful, with 
the rich dark texture and colouring of oak panelling, 
beamed ceilings, wood carving, and ancient fire-places. 

The hall lacked the open Tudor roof, but the carved 
ceiling was an impressive substitute. It was a spacious 
apartment, very English, owing nothing to foreign work- 


REDWAYS 35 

manship. In summer months the family had tea there. 
Three persons were assembled at the meal that late sum¬ 
mer afternoon: Sir Roger Lynngarth, Lady Mercer, who 
was the sister of Sir Roger’s deceased wife, and his old 
friend, Colonel Glenluce. 

Tea w r as served and the servants gone, leaving the 
ground clear for discussion of an event which to these 
three people bordered on the miraculous. 

“Isn’t Stella coming down?” inquired Lady Mercer. 

She glanced at Sir Roger, who shook his head. 

“She is resting till dinner-time,” he said. 

“Mr. Stonnard—will he be in to tea?” 

“He is too busy.” 

Lady Mercer glanced at a clock which was in the act 
of proclaiming the hour of four in an opulent silver 
chime. 

“I wonder where Kathleen is?” she murmured. 

She proceeded to pour out tea. Her brother-in-law 
bestowed upon her the darkened remote glance of a man 
whose mind was dwelling on other things. A political 
opponent had once described Sir Roger Lynngarth as a 
county magnate with a cold manner and a large rent 
roll. Like most generalizations, the definition did not go 
far enough. He was an English gentleman and great 
landowner, one of a type fast dying out, sufficiently 
wealthy to withstand the taxation which was crushing 
his class out of existence. He lived in a world of his own 
so removed from the modern outlook that it resembled 
the existence of a being on another planet. Yet his 
point of view was simplicity itself. Devotion to tradi¬ 
tions of race and caste, coupled with Roman severity in 
upholding that standard of honour—such was his simple 
creed, yet one not only outside the comprehension of our 
common modern clay, but also so imperfectly appreciated 


36 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


in his own family circle that his first wife died in awe of 
him, after thirty years’ wedlock, without understanding 
him or his code. 

He had political leanings (at the call of duty), a seat 
in the Commons, where he was rarely seen, and his influ¬ 
ence in the county was paramount, so that party man¬ 
agers consulted him when a general election was in the 
air. The Coalition had his support on patriotic grounds, 
though he disapproved of it on the w r hole as a combina¬ 
tion of intensive vulgarity, and hoped to see the Con¬ 
servatives returned to power at the next general election. 
In which case a portfolio was awaiting him—but that 
was lobby gossip. 

His seventieth year had sounded its solemn warning 
in his ear, but he had too many interests in this world 
to think of the next. Indeed, his second marriage to 
youth and beauty indicated that he by no means regarded 
his life as a dwindling concern. But, then, he was not 
a man who need feel any fear at the approach of death. 
Wealth and good blood, a patriot and strict Churchman 
—it is reasonable to assume that his footing was secure 
and his welcome assured, wherever he went in this world 
or the next. 

He sipped his tea with preoccupied air; frail, upright, 
well preserved, carefully dressed; fine-featured in a severe 
way, with cold, dark eyes, undimmed by time, though 
glasses hung by a black silk ribbon from his neck. Aus¬ 
terity and aloofness were perceptible in the stillness of 
his pose, it needed sharp scrutiny to gain an indication of 
the current of thought beneath that stiffened exterior, 
though his courtesy was perfect, and his voice—w r hen he 
spoke—low and gentle. Impossible to imagine him with 
a zest for anything—unless for honour. One thin hand 
rested on the tea-table as if carved in marble, a large dia- 




REDWAYS 37 

mond on the little finger glittering in the light of the 
afternoon sun. 

“It seems like a resurrection from the dead, Glen- 
luce.” 

His soft, cold voice broke a lengthy silence. The 
reference was to the subject of their thoughts—the re¬ 
turn of Sir Roger’s only son after twelve years’ absence 
from England. 

Glenluce, tall, well-groomed, with a martial bearing 
and a single glass screwed into his right eye, nodded with 
sympathetic understanding. 

“ 6 My son who was dead, and is alive again,’ ” he quoted 
gently. 

“Roger appears to regard it more like the return of 
Lazarus,” interposed Lady Mercer lightly. 

Sir Roger Lynngarth received the remark with a frigid 
glance. Experience had taught him that expostulation 
was worse than useless where Annette was concerned. 
Ignoring her now, he again addressed himself to his old 
friend. 

“Robert’s return after this lapse of time has a certain 
awkwardness about it. He drops from the clouds with 
a letter by this morning’s post. Twelve years’ silence 
—and this. I can hardly realize it.” 

“Still—your only son,” murmured Glenluce. 

Sir Roger drew his thin lips together. 

“Even so, he could have arranged his return in a dif¬ 
ferent way,” he said dryly. “As it is-” He changed 

his mind about finishing the sentence, and added in a 
different voice, “It is very like Robert, though.” 

“You might have wired to him,” suggested Lady Mer¬ 
cer, “then written and explained everything before he 
came down. That would have been the best course, and 
spared every one’s feelings.” 



38 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“There was no address. I have already made that 
clear.” Sir Roger spoke with controlled patience. 

“No postmark?” asked Lady Mercer vaguely. 

“One can hardly wire to a London postmark,” said 
her brother-in-law. He turned again to Glenluce. 
“Robert has acted too impulsively. His letter has had a 
regrettable effect on my wife. It has quite upset her.” 

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Glenluce sympathetically. 

Lady Mercer, more robustly feminine, was less tender. 

“There’s no reason why Stella should be upset by the 
letter,” she declared. “Undoubtedly it’s an unfortunate 
coincidence, but Robert will feel the shock—the shock 
of his mother’s death, I mean—most. Still, he has 
only himself to blame, dropping from the clouds, as 
Roger says, as though he’d been away for a few months, 
instead of twelve years. Anyone behaving like that must 
expect to be surprised. He must take things as they 
come. Time is not going to stand still for him, and 
twelve years is half a lifetime. People die and are for¬ 
gotten in that time, and others marry again.” Her 
glance rested on her brother-in-law’s back. “Robert was 
always in trouble, acting on impulse. I dislike impulse, 
in men.” 

She nodded shrewdly again towards Sir Roger’s back 
and passed Glenluce a second cup of tea with a hand 
beringed beyond the value of his year’s income. 

Lady Mercer had good blood and money—plenty of 
both, the former her patrimony, the latter her late hus¬ 
band’s, a Scotch whisky peer. The distiller’s widow was 
a dominating personality, full of worldly wisdom ac¬ 
quired in a half-century’s experience of business, politics 
and finance. Her dreams were over, and she saw things 
clear. She was sixty, knew human nature, dressed ex¬ 
tremely w T ell, had a hook nose, a loud voice, and a habit 


REDWAYS 


39 


of saying exactly what she thought; which was the terror 
of her friends. But money made her independent of their 
good opinion, and respect for wealth enabled people to 
tolerate her frank speaking which would have been rude¬ 
ness in moderate means and presumptuous insolence 
in poverty. Mixing with the great ones of the earth, 
she was behind the scenes in the game of high politics 
and international finance, and by a natural process of 
disillusionment had come to regard the world as a pack 
of fools ruled by a handful of rogues and hypocrites. 
With this moral outlook went a kindly heart which robbed 
her barbs of much of their sting—for understanding 
souls. She regarded the after-war generation as flabby, 
vulgar and foolish, but her nature drew amusement from 
a contemplation of its serious-minded young men who 
dabbled in psychoanalysis, and its emancipated girls who 
rode motorcycles. 

Lady Mercer lived in London, but descended on Red- 
ways when it suited her. She was fond of Kathleen, Sir 
Roger’s ward, and had views for the child. In his cold 
way her brother-in-law disliked his late wife’s sister, but 
■would have scorned to quarrel w T ith her on that account. 
She was his relative, and had great wealth. Twin buck¬ 
lers, these, in Sir Roger’s eyes. 

“After all, one must take life seriously,” she went on. 
“Robert never did. In fact, he was quite reckless. The 
shock may be his salvation, if he hasn’t changed.” 

Her eye rested on Sir Roger, but he did not lift his 
head. 

Glenluce coughed softly, with the feeling that they were 
on delicate ground. He endeavoured to edge away from 

it. 

“I agree with you, Lady Mercer,” he said. “This 
letter is a mere temporary embarrassment—awkward and 


40 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


sad for both Lady Lynngarth and Sir Roger’s son—but 
a matter capable of adjustment or explanation in a few 
words.” 

A silence fell at this remark. They sat without speak¬ 
ing for some minutes. Then Sir Roger murmured, al¬ 
most in a whisper. 

“If it were only that!” 

He checked himself like one betrayed by speaking a 
hidden thought aloud, but Lady Mercer heard him. She 
looked at him composedly. 

“You mean why Robert left England in the first 
place?” 

His glance reproved her and besought her silence, but 
she chose to ignore it. 

“You and Robert quarrelled,” she went on. 

“That is not a matter I care to have discussed.” 

Sir Roger’s glance held icy displeasure, but Lady Mer¬ 
cer was not to be stopped. 

“Robert left Redways afterwards and never returned. 
I was staying here at the time, you know. I’m still in 
the dark about what happened, or whether that’s what 
kept Robert out of England all these years. I suppose 
some boyish escapade was at the bottom of it, if the 
truth were known. Robert always had a weakness for a 
pretty face, but that’s no great sin in a place like Eng¬ 
land, where there are more than enough girls to go round. 
You always overdid the part of the stern parent, Roger. 
I hope you do not meditate keeping it up, after all these 
years. Forgive and forget—if there’s anything to for¬ 
give—and let sleeping dogs lie.” 

An opening door interrupted her. The butler entered 
with noiseless steps, letters on salver, which he brought 
to the master of the house. Sir Roger opened one, and 
put the rest aside. 


REDWAYS 


41 


The functionary waited; a figure of complete immobil¬ 
ity, clean-shaven, with a touch of side-whisker, a typical 
country butler—nothing more, unless you were curious 
enough to glance at the ferret eyes now veiled by heavy 
lids. They suggested a disposition not in accord with 
the sleek demure exterior, or physiognomists erred. Sir 
Roger was not a physiognomist, and, even if he had been, 
was not likely to have bothered about his butler’s eyes. 

“Tell Mr. Stonnard I should like to see him,” he 
said, when he had finished perusing the letter. 

The butler bowed, and added the information: 

“Mr. and Mrs. Horbury have just arrived, Sir Roger.” 

“I’d forgotten them,” said Sir Roger blankly. 

“Send in some more tea, Jauncey,” said Lady Mer¬ 
cer. 

The butler bowed again, and departed. 

Mrs. Horbury was Sir Roger’s only sister, who had 
ended a tempestuous girlhood by eloping with a White¬ 
hall clerk who had less than a thousand a year. The 
couple were now working out their repentance in a small 
house at Putney, with a large young family. Mindful of 
his duties as a brother and a Christian gentleman, Sir 
Roger assisted them, and occasionally had them down to 
Redways for a week-end on the understanding that the 
large young family were left behind. The Murillo in 
the hall still bore the mark where one of the hopefuls 
had endeavoured to thrust an inquiring finger through 
the eye. Sir Roger believed in large families for 
England’s greatness, but not at the expense of his 
Murillos. 

Stonnard, the secretary, appeared on the wings of 
speed. Slight, fair, and sandy-haired, he had been en¬ 
dowed at birth with a pair of wistful violet eyes, which 
were more in keeping with the heroine of an emotional 


42 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


novel than a private secretary with political ambitions. 
A slight tendency to early baldness did not lessen the 
anomaly. But he was clever, well-mannered, an excellent 
secretary, and efficient. Moreover, he was of good fam¬ 
ily. For these things his employer liked him. Sir Roger 
now handed him the letter. 

“You might telephone to Frampton about this, Ston- 
nard. Tell him”—he hesitated slightly—“unforeseen 
circumstances will prevent my attending the meeting to¬ 
morrow night.” 

“Will you have some tea, Mr. Stonnard?” Lady Mer¬ 
cer placed a hand on the teapot. She also liked her 
brother’s secretary. She thought he was bound to “get 
on.” “There will be some fresh tea coming,” she added. 

“None for me, thanks, Lady Mercer. I’ve a ton of 
w T ork to get through before dinner.” 

A moment or two after his departure a tall deep- 
bosomed lady with a high complexion swept into the 
room and kissed Sir Roger’s cold cheek effusively. This 
was Mrs. Horbury, Sir Roger’s sister. In her wake 
came her husband, a small slight man with a stoop, fair 
hair, and weak eyes, w T ho shook hands all round. 

“I’ve heard the news,” Mrs. Horbury exclaimed. “Mr. 
Stonnard has just told me. Amazing, incredible. I’m 
all in a whirl. Has Robert arrived yet?” 

Her brother shook his head. 

“We came by an early train to lunch with the Porters 
at Winchester. The loss of her daughter has been a 
frightful blow to Lucy, but she’s getting over it. But 
tell me, Roger, how do you feel about Robert’s return. 
You know I never really believed in my secret heart that 
he was dead. And now he’s back again! Well, that 
only proves—what does it prove?” 


REDWAYS 


43 


“That the age of miracles is not past for one thing,” 
said Lady Mercer. 

“True,” said Mrs. Horbury, stirring her tea. “I won¬ 
der where he’s been, and if he’s changed much? Where 
are Stella and Kathleen?” 

Lady Mercer vouchsafed the information that Lady 
Lynngarth had a bad head and that Kathleen had gone 
out after lunch. Mrs. Horbury nodded. 

“Kathleen was always mad on open air,” she said. 
The headache passed without comment. She went on 
with her tea, talking incessantly. 

Lady Mercer listened indifferently, Sir Roger lent an 
abstracted ear, Glenluce adjusted his eyeglass and turned 
over the pages of a magazine. Mr. Horbury, always ill 
at ease among the great ones of Redways, sat meekly 
upright, his mild blue eyes blinking deferentially in the 
direction of his august brother-in-law. 

Time passed. Sir Roger grew fidgety, nervous even. 
That was apparent to Ladj r Mercer’s bright, cold eye. 
She knew how he must feel, and seized the opportunity 
of a pause in Mrs. Horbury’s talk to exclaim at the 
lateness of the hour. The silver-faced timepiece indicated 
five o’clock. Lady Mercer rose and shook out her skirts. 

“I shall go and rest till dinner-time,” she said, and 
left the room. 

Mrs. Horbury followed suit, drawing her husband after 
her with one of those imperious gestures which women 
reserve for some husbands. Mr. Horbury, who had a 
taste for, mechanics and had been occupying his leisure 
for the last quarter of an hour tinkering at his watch 
in an incompetent helpless fashion, rose in obedience 
to the summons. He went out gently, closing the door 
behind him. 


44 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


When they were gone the two friends sat without speak¬ 
ing. Sir Roger’s face revealed marks of unusual per¬ 
turbation. Glenluce thought he understood his agitation, 
and respected it. Sir Roger glanced restlessly at his 
watch once or twice, then rose and stood by the mantel¬ 
piece, his arm resting upon it. He broke the lengthy 
silence. 

“He may be here any moment now.” 

“You have sent the car to meet the afternoon train, 
I suppose?” inquired Glenluce casually. 

“I have not,” responded the other with exceeding dry¬ 
ness. Glenluce’s face expressed such astonishment that 
he hastened to add: “Robert did not choose to say which 
train he would travel by. In any case, he is not coming 
to see me. He has chosen to ignore my wishes even in 
this visit, as he always has.” 

He took a turn or two along the carpet, came to a full 
stop, and exclaimed: 

“As always, he is doing this to please himself.” 

Glenluce looked keenly at his friend. It was dawning 
on him that he was not looking forward to his son’s 
return with the joy he might have been expected to feel, 
in spite of the quarrel to which Lady Mercer had referred. 
That was a state of affairs best met by discreet silence, so 
Glenluce held his tongue. 

“This comes as a great shock to me—after twelve 
years,” the elder man continued. “There are circum¬ 
stances—reasons—why Robert should have sought my 
advice before returning. All things considered, it would 
have been better for him to remain silent, or, at least, 
to staj^ out of England.” 

There was an agitation in the cold voice of the speaker 
which caused Glenluce to look at him with a deeper and 
more penetrating glance. He gathered that young 


REDWAYS 


45 


Lynngarth had disappeared from England under some 
sort of cloud. He remembered there had been surmises 
and raised eyebrows in Society at the time. The facts 
were not known, but no one believed the story of the 
African big-game hunt so carefully circulated. Besides, 
Robert Lynngarth never came back—just dropped out of 
things, and was forgotten. That was long ago—long 
before Glenluce’s own political appointment to the Home 
Office. He had not known Sir Roger so intimately in 
those days, and if he had he would not have dreamed of 
questioning him about his son’s strange disappearance. 

“You do not know why my son left England?” 

“No; how should I know?” 

“I thought—I wondered—whether some hint, a whis¬ 
per, had reached you.” Sir Roger brought this out with 
slow and laboured utterance, watching the other nar¬ 
rowly. 

“No; nothing.” 

“I feel that I ought to tell you.” 

“I would rather not know,” said Glenluce. “Why 
should you stir up this story of your son’s past, what¬ 
ever it is, if he is returning to resume his place in the 
world as your heir?” 

“He cannot do that.” Sir Roger’s eyes had a goaded 
look. “I need your advice, your help.” 

Glenluce’s hesitation might have been taken as tacit 
permission to proceed. Sir Roger so interpreted it. 

“When Robert went away-” 

Glenluce made a quick gesture. “One moment. Are 
you seeking my help as a friend or in my official ca¬ 
pacity?” 

“Let us say both,” said the other with a slight frown. 

“Then I’d rather you kept your own counsel, my dear 
Lynngarth,” said Glenluce candidly. “Besides, your 




46 ISLAND OF DESTINY 

son’s past, whatever it is, is his secret, not yours, to 
confide.” 

“It depends upon what the secret it,” rejoined Sir 
Roger in a voice barely above a whisper. 

“Please do not place me in an awkward situation by 
confiding it to me, whatever it is.” Glenluce softened 
his refusal with a friendly smile, which found no reflection 
'in Sir Roger’s stern white face. 

Another silence fell upon them, occupied by Glenluce 
in the effort to shape some retreat from an awkward 
situation. But Sir Roger had no more to say. Unused 
to rebuffs, his pride was angered, his tongue curbed, his 
unwonted weakness icily repressed. He had gone back 
into his shell. He stood against the mantelpiece in 
stiffened poise, affronted dignity in every line. 

Glenluce leant against the window looking out upon 
the garden and the scene beyond. White butterflies 
dropped over purple scented beds, an insect host floated 
on filmy wings above the lilies of the pond, small birds 
hopped in pertest ease among the shady yews. Outside 
the blaze of colour the country-side stretched in summer 
peace: woods, meadows freckled pink and white, a quiet 
stretch of river, farm-houses, haystacks bronzed in after¬ 
noon sun. 

Along the sweep of pasture-land a man was making his 
way—a tall figure with an easy swinging carriage, look¬ 
ing leisurely around him as he walked. He crossed the 
park in the direction of the house, disappeared in a 
clump of trees, then reappeared in the broad curve of the 
drive. Next moment Glenluce saw him entering the gar¬ 
den. 

The watcher within scanned him attentively, but could 
not see his face. He walked with bent head, carrying a 
small case, and seemed in no hurry to reach the house. 


REDWAYS 


47 


Reach it he did, at length. The observer behind the 
window curtains made sure on that point before he turned 
to the motionless figure by the mantelpiece, and said in a 
gentle voice: 

“Some one has just come through the garden. I fancy 
it is your son.” 

Sir Roger made no reply, but started slightly a 
moment later at the sound of a footstep outside. 
The door opened and Jauncey approached the master 
of the house with discreet deliberation. His voice was 
heard. 

“Mr. Lynngarth has arrived, Sir Roger. I have 
shown him to the Painted Room as you desired.” 


CHAPTER V 


FATHER AND SON 

T HE smart maid who opened the door eyed him with 
the intrepid glance of pert girlhood, but the in¬ 
valuable Jauncey, waiting within ear-shot for the 
sound of the bell, advanced with stately grace to take 
charge of the situation. The girl vanished in response 
to his almost imperceptible gesture, and the butler con¬ 
fronted the tall figure on the door-step with suave dignity. 

“Mr. Lynngarth? Will you be so good as to allow 
me to show you into the study, sir?” 

Robert followed him across the hall and down a corri¬ 
dor. The passage with the dark room at the end of it 
seemed familiar as the setting of a remembered dream. 
The butler opened the door and stood aside for him to 
enter. 

“I will tell Sir Roger, sir.” 

He retreated from the doorway with an austere bow. 
Robert stood in the middle of the room into which he 
had been admitted, looking around him. It was his 
fathers sanctum, where he made up his accounts and 
transacted his business affairs, a gloomy apartment mas¬ 
sively furnished in mahogany, book-lined shelves, a large 
bureau, and oak-framed pictures hanging on the darkly 
papered walls. It was the room in which their last inter¬ 
view had taken place twelve years before. 

How well he remembered it! How everything came 
back to him at that moment! Not a thing had been 

changed. The Painted Room, as it was called, because of 

48 


FATHER AND SON 


49 


the painted allegorical panels let into the walls and ceil¬ 
ing—panels of unknown antiquity, carried out with a 
kind of savage decorative sense, as though the designers 
were actuated by the desire to impress stern moral lessons 
on those who occupied the room. Those panels had ter¬ 
rified him as a child, and haunted his infant dreams. 
They seemed terrifying even now, these conceptions of 
dead men who had looked with horror on the world 
and the flesh, and had sought to warn their generation 
of the futility of this life below. There was one in par¬ 
ticular which had frightened Robert as a child, and his 
eye turned to it now. It covered the space above the 
mantelpiece, and depicted a dark landscape ravaged by a 
thunderstorm which had split the surface of the earth in 
twain. Into this chasm a multitude of naked people 
were plunging distractedly. From the clouds above a 
clenched fist protruded grasping forked lightning, and 
the scene was dominated by a large eye, which glared from 
a white space above the clouds with an expression of freez¬ 
ing malevolence. 

There was no escaping the Eye. The artist had aimed 
at omnipotence in depicting it, and had succeeded. It 
dominated the room as well as the picture, watching 
every one with sleepless vigilance. Ever since Robert 
could remember, the Eye had brooded ferociously over 
the mantelpiece, seeing all things, staring people out of 
countenance, prying into the minds, reckoning them up, 
weighing them in the balance and finding them wanting. 
Its gaze fitted the rigour of the text which appeared at 
the foot of the picture: 

“Thou fool , this night thy soul shall he required of thee” 

It watched Robert now as it had watched him in former 
days when he was shut in the room by his father for 


50 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


punishment, alone with the Eye; it seemed to disapprove 
of him now, as it had disapproved of him then. 

The door behind him opened, and Robert Lynngarth 
turned to greet the one who entered. 

“Father!” 

“Well, Robert?” 

Robert strode impulsively forward, but the elder man 
remained where he stood, looking at his son with a 
straight, cold glance. There was little welcome in the 
voice which extended that brief greeting to a son returned 
after twelve years’ absence, but there was astonishment 
in the look Sir Roger bestowed upon him. 

“You have changed,” he said at length, “greatly 
changed.” 

They regarded each other in silence, trying to renew 
the past with the eyes of the present. Their last inter¬ 
view in that room, twelve years before, was in the minds 
of both. 

“Sit down, Robert,” said Sir Roger, in a different 
tone. “I wished to see you alone before you meet—the 
others.” 

Robert took a chair, glancing covertly at his father. 
But Sir Roger was not looking at him. He remained 
standing, wuth a preoccupied face, fumbling with the 
narrow 7 silk ribbon from w'hich his pince-nez dangled. 

“I w r ish you had let me know of your intention to 
return to England,” he remarked at last. 

“I should have done so, I know,” his son replied, in a 
low voice. 

“We believed you dead,” returned the other. “You 
have allowed us to remain under that belief for all these 
years. Now you suddenly return, without a word of 
warning.” 

“I wrote to my mother.” 


FATHER AND SON 


51 


Sir Roger turned a strange glance on him. 

“You should have written to me,” he said. “That 
w r as your plain duty. You have acted inconsiderately, 
though that is nothing new. Impulse, always impulse! 
Have you not learnt yet to control your feelings? You 
stayed away and remained silent for twelve years to please 
yourself, and in the same capricious spirit you break 
your silence and return without a word of warning. You, 
who should not be in England at all!” 

Robert turned pale, and rose to his feet. “I came 
back from caprice, as you say,” he coldly remarked. 
“But I came for one purpose only—to see my mother 
again. I received an appeal from her—an appeal which 
reached me in the strangest w T ay—a summons which I 
dared not disobey. My visit will be a brief one—I assure 
you that.” 

He looked at his father a little wistfully, but there was 
no reply. 

“I presume you wdll not prevent my seeing her-” 

The elder man interrupted him swiftly. 

“I have bad news for you.” 

“What is it?” 

Again no reply was forthcoming, but Robert saw tears 
in his father’s eyes, and the hand which fumbled wfith the 
silk ribbon w’as trembling. A realization of the truth 
swept over him like a cold wind. 

“Father!” he cried. “What is it? Tell me!” 

“Your mother died five years ago,” said Sir Roger 
solemnly. 

His father’s tears had prepared him for it, but the 
information, thus announced, reached him wfith an added 
poignancy. The years, the all-devouring years, had 
stolen his mother from him. That gracious being with 
the tender eyes and gentle ways had been swept away by 





52 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


inexorable time. She had gone as though she had never 
existed, leaving nothing but a memory behind. It gave 
him a suffocating sense of the malignity of existence. 
The black wings of death seemed to be beating about his 
own ears. He had difficulty in collecting his thoughts. 
His glance wandered round the room, and encountered 
the Eye above the mantelpiece. The Eye dwelt on him 
coldly, as though searching his inmost thoughts. 

“This must come as a tremendous shock to you, Rob¬ 
ert.” 

His father’s voice reached him from a distance. Sir 
Roger crossed to him and laid a hand lightly on his 
shoulder. There was an abnegation of self in that 
gesture, the outcome of a religious faith which bade Sir 
Roger comfort a stricken soul. For the moment at 
least, the Prodigal Son was forgiven. “Your return, 
your letter to her, have opened a wound that was almost 
healed. Her illness was very sudden—and unexpected. 
She suffered. Everything possible was done, but it was 
hopeless from the first. She spoke of you in her last 
illness. Frequently. She begged me to forgive you. 
She thought you were still alive, although you had never 
written. I told her I had forgiven you, and that I would 
endeavour to find you. She died happy in that assur¬ 
ance.” 

Sir Roger’s voice shook slightly as he uttered these 
words. His emotion was stirred at his own fine part in 
that death-scene: at his nobleness in exercising the divine 
quality of forgiveness in order to send a dying soul re¬ 
joicing into the dark unknown. 

Robert crossed the room to the French window, which 
looked out on a lawn. Beyond was the garden, full of 
massed and nodding blooms, with butterflies floating 
around them like mere specks of brilliant colour in the 


FATHER AND SON 53 

clear light. His eyes rested on these things without see¬ 
ing them. His father’s voice broke into his reverie: 

44 Your letter was received this morning. I would have 
spared you this if you had written sooner.” 

“I wrote from Auckland—in the first place,” said the 
son, turning round. 

“The earlier letter was not received.” 

“I posted it myself,” murmured the other. 

“It is strange that it should have gone astray.” Sir 
Roger spoke coldly. It was evident that the moment of 
his emotion had passed, as all such moments do. “You 
have not yet told me how you came to return to England. 
It was injudicious on your part, to say the least. I gave 
you up for dead years ago, although I continued your 
mother’s advertisements for some months after she died 
because of my promise to her.” 

“The advertisement reached me.” 

“The advertisement did not invite you to return to 
England,” Sir Roger quickly remarked. “Besides, that 
was some years ago. If this is the reason which induced 
you to return-” 

“I saw the advertisement two months ago,” his son 
interrupted. “That alone would certainly not have 
brought me back. There was another reason—a letter 
from my mother. It came to me strangely. Shall I tell 
you?” 

Sir Roger listened to the story in silence. He could 
hardly believe it. It seemed too improbable for sober 
credence. The sight of the sea-stained letter which his 
son produced from his pocket-book did not cause him to 
alter his opinion. 

“It was a summons I had to obey,” said the younger 
man, in a low voice. 

“It would have been better if you had acted with less 



54 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


impulse,” his father dryly rejoined. “As you chose to 
remain silent for twelve years, you should have com¬ 
municated with my solicitors or myself before returning. 
Then you would have learnt the truth and been spared 
all this. Personally, I should have preferred to make 
you a suitable allowance, conditionally, of course, upon 
your remaining out of England. There have been changes 
—other changes.” 

He paused abruptly w T ith a growing feeling of irritation 
against this scapegrace son, who dropped out the clouds 
after twelve years’ absence, expecting to find things ex¬ 
actly as he had left them. Sir Roger had long been a 
stranger to embarrassment, though in that room many 
humbler folk had stood embarrassed in his august pres¬ 
ence. But at that moment he had the feeling of one forced 
to discuss most intimate family affairs with a complete 
stranger. That unwonted state of mind he attributed 
to his difficulty in reconciling the memory of the fair¬ 
haired boy from whom he had parted in bitter anger 
tw T elve years before with the tall bronzed man, who now 
regarded him sadly. 

“What other changes?” Robert picked up his father’s 
last remark quickly, with a note of alarm in his voice. 
“Is there any more bad news? Has anything happened 
to Kathleen?” 

“Kathleen is quite well and happy.” 

“Is she married?” asked Robert, struck by a sudden 
thought. 

“She is not married, nor likely to be—yet. She is a 
modern girl, and does not approve of marriage as the 
sole outlet of a woman’s energies. She thinks of a career 
for herself.” 

Another disillusionment! Robert found it difficult to 
visualize Lady Fibbets as grown up and modern, taking 



FATHER AND SON 55 

herself so seriously as to denounce marriage as an in¬ 
stitution. 

“The other change of which I spoke is that I’ve mar¬ 
ried again.” 

“Oh!” said his son in surprise. “You have married 
again?” 

He looked at his father blankly. Sir Roger’s own eyes 
strayed from his son’s face to a distant small table which 
stood near his bureau. Robert’s eyes involuntarily fol¬ 
lowed his father’s glance. In former years a photograph 
of his mother had always been on that table, with a 
bowl of fresh flowers beside it. There was a bowl of 
flowers now freshly plucked, but the small frame which had 
held his mother’s picture was replaced by a large modern 
one. 

A change came over Robert’s expression as he caught 
sight of this hitherto unnoticed picture. Its presence in 
that sacred spot seemed to startle him. He walked across 
to the table and looked at it. His profound scrutiny 
lasted so long that Sir Roger found himself absurdly 
anxious to get a glimpse of his son’s face, like a man wait¬ 
ing for a verdict. It was as though something incal¬ 
culably momentous to himself was involved in his son’s 
contemplation of the photograph. 

Robert put the photograph back on the table with a 
sharp intake of the breath, and looked round. His father 
could gather nothing from his expression. 

“Who is this girl, father?” 

The sound of these words touched some hidden spring 
of irritation in Sir Roger’s breast. He looked up angrily, 
but his son’s face was as expressionless as though hidden 
behind a vizor. 

“That is my present wife,” he said solemnly. 

Robert looked attentively at his father’s ageing face 


56 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


and whitening hair, as if examining the lineaments of a 
stranger. His father was married again, and to the 
girl in the silver frame. He sighed wearily, like a man 
turning over some tremendous moral problem. His eyes 
again turned inquisitively to the wistful face in the frame, 
as though seeking the solution there. 

“Where did you first meet your present wife, father ?” 
he asked. 

Sir Roger chose to see an element of mockery in the 
other’s glance. Bitter anger filled him at the thought 
that his son should descend upon him after all these 
years, like a black phantom of the past, and presume to 
sit in judgment on his acts. But he restrained his anger. 

“I met my wife during the war, in France,” he coldly 
explained. “She was a nurse at one of the base hospitals. 
She is some years younger than myself, though I am 
not conscious of the difference. I feel younger than my 
years. I have always taken care of myself and led a 
proper life. No excess of any kind—except excess of 
work.” Sir Roger uttered these last words with manifest 
approbation for a life of sterling conduct. 

Robert lifted his head and looked at him. 

“Why did you marry again?” 

Sir Roger was penetrated with the uneasy feeling that 
his son’s attitude was not in keeping with one who had 
sinned before heaven and in his sight. In the parable 
the son returned home in the humblest spirit, and ac¬ 
cepted his portion of fatted calf with the becoming 
meekness of a penitent sinner. There was no suggestion 
that he cross-questioned his father about his own conduct 
during his absence. Sir Roger deemed it due to himself 
to live up to the traditional virtue of the Prodigal’s 
father by remaining calm. But he spoke with dignity: 

“That is a question you have no right to ask, Robert.” 


FATHER AND SON 57 

“Perhaps not. I beg jour pardon, father. This news 
has come as a tremendous shock to me.” 

He got up from his chair again and paced restlessly 
about the room. Sir Roger watched him in silence and 
some inward perturbation. At that moment his son con¬ 
veyed to him a regrettable impression of some untamed 
animal; brown-skinned, tanned, with the whites of his eyes 
showing as he glanced about him obliquely. There was 
something disconcerting in that sidelong look, a kind of 
impatience, contempt, perhaps; the unconscious revela¬ 
tion of a rebellious mind which views with derision all 
things civilized. 

He waited for a space, but the younger man made no 
sound. The silence grew tense. 

“My second marriage w r as no hasty decision on my part, 
Robert.” 

His son stopped short with an exclamation which 
startled him. 

“I wish now that I had never returned to England,” 
he said passionately. 

“I also share that wish,” responded his father mildly. 
“But it is useless talking in that strain—now that you 
are back.” 

“That is a mistake which can be very easily remedied,” 
said Robert, turning towards the door as he spoke. 

“What are you going to do?” 

“Go away as soon as possible. But I should like to 
see Kathleen first.” 

“You cannot leave the house in this way. As you 
have chosen to return, you must stay.” 

“Why?” 

“Remember your position. It would have been in¬ 
finitely better if you had not returned; but, now that you 
are back, you must think of me. The servants know that 


58 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


you are here, and servants are prone to gossip. If you 
disappear again too quickly, you will set afoot surmise 
and suspicion.” 

“Suspicion?” 

“Suspicion—if not worse,” replied Sir Roger signifi¬ 
cantly. “The mere fact of jrnur reappearance in this 
house is a remarkable circumstance, which will start the 
tongues of all Hampshire wagging. Your second dis¬ 
appearance would be infinitely worse, for me, who would 
have to bear the brunt of any inquiries. You must re¬ 
main—for the present, at all events.” 

Robert gave a hopeless shrug of resignation. 

“Very well,” he said, “but for my part I would sooner 
go at once.” 

“It is getting on for dinner-time,” said his father, 
glancing at his watch. “We had better dress. You can 
tell me this evening what you have been doing all these 
years.” 

He uttered these words in a more friendly tone than 
he had yet used, and touched the bell as he spoke. It 
was answered by the maid who had opened the door to 
Robert on his arrival. 

“Show Mr. Lynngarth to his room,” he said. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE STAIRCASE 

T HE bedroom was grave and restrained, sheathed in 
soft grained wood, instead of oak, the ceiling 
painted with angels who looked down on him with 
sad faces. The Angel Room! Why had they put him 
there? Did they think he needed a guardian angel? 
Truly, he did; every man did. 

He slowly dressed for dinner in the waning light. 
Beneath the high and narrow windows stretched the quiet 
country-side, the fields where the rooks were trailing 
home, the river gleaming like old hammered silver in the 
last rays of the sun. These things were familiar enough 
to him, and the anticipation of seeing them again had 
haunted his homeward dreams. But now? 

His eye rested on the black yew encircling the little 
churchyard where his mother was sleeping, a stranger 
to the doubts and fears which filled his breast. Her 
letter had recalled him. How he regretted now that it 
had reached his island! Why had Fate done this thing? 
What was the purpose behind it? Better far to have 
left him as dead than send him this poignant and useless 
summons from the grave. 

If that, being bad, had been the worst! But it was 
only half the ghastly trick. A ghastly trick? Incred¬ 
ible, monstrous? What was he to do? 

He stood like a figure carved in stone, staring before 
him as if at something visible to himself alone, one hand 
held outward—stiffened, as it were, in some involuntary 

gesture of protest, or even despair. 

59 


60 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


He was aroused from that attitude by the sobbing of 
a woman. It fell on his startled ears with disconcerting 
suddenness, so close that it might have been in the dark¬ 
ening room, reaching him in mournful cadence like some 
minor chord of Tschaikowsky. 

Robert walked to the door and opened it. Outside 
was a dim and empty corridor, with shut doors on each 
side, stretching a carpeted way to the head of the stair¬ 
case, where between black velvet curtains a marble figure 
of Echo held a light in uplifted hand. The light revealed 
her turned head and rapt face, marble finger against 
marble lip, as though she, too, had heard the sobbing and 
entreated the silence of the man now looking out of his 
door. But the sound had ceased. Robert stood for 
some moments in the open door-way, listening. 

Puzzling over this incident, he closed the door behind 
him, and walked towards the head of the staircase. The 
silence was absolute, broken only by the soft padding of 
his shoes on the velvet carpet. His way was haunted 
by the oddest feeling that a pair of unseen eyes rested 
upon him and followed his movements. He turned 
sharply more than once, but w T as confronted by nothing 
but a dim, empty corridor, with a twin row of shut doors, 
blank as the faces of the dead. 

An electric switch near the curtains caught his eye. 
He pressed it, and the corridor leapt into soft light from 
end to end. Empty of course. He knew that already. 
Above him poised Echo, with alert and listening head. 
Her raised finger seemed to bespeak his attention for 
something her rigid lips could not reveal. Wonderingly 
he followed the direction of the nymph’s gaze down the 
passage, then turned impatiently away. 

“Fancy,” he muttered. “Pure fancy. I’ve lived too 
much alone.” He went on his way downstairs. 


THE STAIRCASE 


61 


The great hall was empty. A light or two glowed at 
intervals. Not many. There is a fitness in these things 
for old Tudor halls. A silver clock softly proclaimed 
the half-hour—the half-hour after seven. He was early 
—everybody was still upstairs dressing for dinner. 
Eight o’clock was the hour for dinner at Redways. 

Robert stationed himself in front of the open fire-place, 
glancing leisurely around the hall. There was still plenty 
of daylight outside, but it was almost dark within. His 
eye marked everything: the carved over-mantel, the 
heavy oak beams, plaster frieze, dark ceiling, with curious 
little pendants, the panels bearing Queen Elizabeth’s 
arms, supported by lion and griffin. Nothing changed. 

His glance rested on the great staircase—the famous 
staircase which drew connoisseurs from distant parts; 
so magnificent that Redways might have been built for 
no other purpose than to house it, if it had not been of 
later date than the house. Late Stuart, with balustrades 
of solid oak covered with foliage and figures; a woodland 
saturnalia full of marvellous little creatures, nymphs 
and satyrs, birds and animals, all carved with the same 
wonderful skill. The origin of the carvings was doubt¬ 
ful, but they were supposed to be the work of Flemish 
woodcarvers who flocked to England when Charles II 
came to the throne. Certainly these scenes of leafy 
amorousness, half-hidden, half-revealed, were a florid 
flower 'of genius which had never flourished in English 
handicraft. It is not the English way to make such a 
tremendous business of sex as was revealed by those grim 
unending pursuits of naked nymphs. Echo above might 
well turn her head in feminine impatience from fleeing 
damsels who had run for hundreds of years without ever 
allowing themselves to be overtaken. 

The staircase rose in a broad, straight flight to a 


62 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


landing, then branched into two narrower flights which 
spiraled upwards to the right and left wings of the house. 

As a boy, Robert had often stood at the foot of the 
staircase, waiting for his mother to descend. He loved 
to see her coming down, generally in black, with beautiful 
white arms and fair hair, her eyes dwelling with a tender 
light on the little boy at the foot, staring up at her 
gravely. He never ran up to meet her. To his childish 
mind that would have marred the beauty of the spectacle 
which began with the opening of her door high overhead. 
There w r as always something mysterious about her prog¬ 
ress along the narrower gallery w r hich corkscrewed down; 
first invisible, then partly seen, finally emerging into full 
view r from the sharp turn which led into the broad final 
flight. 

Shadows! In his island dreams he had seen her thus, 
as he w r ould never see her again. She had sent for him, 
and he had returned at her bidding, but she had not 
waited for him. She had descended, white as snow, into 
the place where every human soul was bound. The vic¬ 
torious grave had swallowed her. Shadows! 

A familiar sound above his head reached his ears. He 
started slightly. It was the opening of the door w r hich 
had once been hers. He w f ould have known that peculiar, 
slightly dragging sound among a thousand doors. He 
stood still in the attitude of bygone years, one foot on 
the bottom stair, looking up expectantly. He hardly 
knew w T hat he expected to see—his mother walking lightly 
and gracefully, looking down at him tenderly, a shadowy 
figure in the gloaming, but real, wdth the tender light in 
her eyes? Yes, he could have understood that, nor w r ould 
it have surprised him very much. But her ghost? No. 
The old house might well harbour ghosts, but her gra¬ 
cious, gentle spirit would never haunt it—not now! 



THE STAIRCASE 


63 


He checked this fanciful feeling with an effort. Some¬ 
body was coming down—some one of flesh and blood. He 
heard the rustle of a silk dress, the fall of a light and 
hurried footstep. He had a momentary vision of a beau¬ 
tiful face, gazing down at him. Looking upward, he 
caught the flash of a pair of tearful eyes, and then he 
understood. 

His face hardened. This was the other w r ife; the girl 
whose photograph he had seen on the table in his father’s 
study. There v^as silence overhead, as if his father’s 
w T ife had paused, startled, at the sight of the uplifted 
grim brown face. Then the footfalls descended again, 
but more slowly. 

He stood waiting. 

She came into view w r here the naked arm of Echo 
thrust forth a cluster of lights to guide her down. Even 
at that distance Robert Lynngarth was penetrated by 
the mysterious indefinable charm of her personality; a 
charm w r hich radiated from her beautiful form like a 
fragrance, compelling yet elusive, subtle yet provocatively 
feminine. She descended slowly, as if unwilling to com¬ 
plete the last short journey which would bring her to 
where he was standing. Her white shod feet hesitated on 
the crimson staircase carpet, and her eyes v T ere down¬ 
cast. She came down step by step, reluctantly. The 
expression of her beautiful face w T as enigmatic, but above 
the graceful lines of her blue silk evening dress her breast 
moved in quick agitation. Her hands were clasped nerv¬ 
ously before her. Robert Lynngarth gazed at her, fas¬ 
cinated. His eyes took her in: her fair, bent head, her 
delicate features, the supple, graceful lines of her girlish 
figure, the unspoken supplication of that silent approach. 

She lifted her head as she reached the foot of the stairs 
and met his gaze. Her own widened glance was at once 


64 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


appealing and terrified. She approached him with her 
eyes fixed on his face. 

“Jim,” she breathed. 

“Is it really you, then?” he said. 

“Yes,” she panted, with a quick glance around her. 
“Your letter was given—to me.” Her eyes fell involun¬ 
tarily. “I thought I knew the handwriting, but I was 
not sure. It seemed too impossible, too dreadful to be 
true.” 

“Life can play more monstrous tricks than this,” he 
muttered, almost to himself. 

“Jim!” She crept a little closer to him and took his 
unresponsive hand with wistful fingers. “Jim! To see 
you again—to speak to you! How often have I sobbed 
myself to sleep thinking of you. Why did you not write 
to me?” 

He drew back. “To what purpose?” he asked coldly. 

A slight weary movement of her beautiful head seemed 
to indicate acquiescence in that. She came closer. 

“I placed the photograph there, Jim—where you saw 
it.” 

“To put me on my guard? You certainly succeeded.” 

“I have spent a terrible day,” she whispered. “I was 
terrified—I did not know what to do. I would have tele¬ 
graphed if I had known your address. I saw you come. 
Fve been waiting to see you alone. I was going to your 
room, but I was too afraid.” 

“I’m glad you did not attempt to do anything so fool¬ 
ish,” he rejoined. 

“Yes, it would have been foolish. But, Jim-” 

“What is it?” 

“You will not say anything?” 

“You need not have asked that question.” His tone 




THE STAIRCASE 


65 


was cold. “I shall certainly say nothing about the past 
—for my own sake, as well as yours.” 

“I wasn’t thinking about you, Jim,” she hurriedly 
rejoined. 

“You must not call me Jim,” he interrupted. “You 
had better get into the way of regarding me as Robert 
Lynngarth, your stepson. A remarkable relationship, 
truly, considering all things.” 

She flinched as if from a blow, and flushed. Her wist¬ 
ful mouth trembled. 

“Don’t be unkind, Jim,” she murmured hurriedly. 
“If I had only known—if I could have guessed. Jim, 
we must meet alone, and I will tell you everything.” 

“Better not. That would only attract attention. I 
shall not be here long—now that I know this. It is 
foolish for us to be talking here together.” 

“But I must see you, Jim. I am in great trouble.” 

The sound of a gently opening door caused Robert 
Lynngarth to move a step away from the beautiful face 
so near his own. His father’s wife stood extremely still, 
like a statue. Jauncey made a noiseless appearance in 
the distance, moving towards the dining-room as though 
propelled by some mechanism superior to legs. He car¬ 
ried a corkscrew in his hand, and his florid face was pre¬ 
occupied with the heavy responsibility of dinner. With 
careful obviousness his eyes ignored the pair by the stair¬ 
case, and his ears looked such models of discretion that 
it seemed impossible to credit them with the guilt of over¬ 
hearing anything of the conversation which his entrance 
had interrupted. 

He went on his way, and his irreproachable back van¬ 
ished through the opposite door. 

At the same moment Lady Mercer appeared, coming 


66 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


leisurely downstairs. She reached where they were stand¬ 
ing, and scanned Robert through her glasses. 

“Well, Robert,” she said, after a prolonged scrutiny, 
“you’ve changed. You’re your mother’s boy, though. 
Poor Julia!” She approached closer and kissed him. 
“I’m sorry for you Robert, but it’s a pity you did not 
come back sooner.” 

He remained silent. 

“There are only two ways of going through life,” she 
continued. “You either take it seriously, or you do 
not. Your misfortune is that you never did take it 
seriously.” 

“Sometimes I think I’ve taken it too seriously,” he 
murmured with a half-smile. 

“You mean you’ve taken yourself seriously—not life,” 
she replied. “That’s a common enough attitude in these 
days. You have been making Stella’s acquaintance, I 
see.” 

Lady Lynngarth looked at her. “I found—Robert 
here alone when I came down a few minutes ago, and I 
made myself known,” she said shyly. 

“Quite right.” Lady Mercer gave another of her 
quick, shrewd glances at Robert’s guarded face. “You’ll 
have to get used to having a stepmother young enough 
to be your own wife, Robert.” He started perceptibly 
at the sally. She went on: “Not that these things 
matter much nowadays. We’ve abolished old age in Eng¬ 
land since the war. Nowadays, grandmothers dress like 
flappers, and flappers know more than their grand¬ 
mothers. Have you seen Kathleen, Robert?” 

“Not yet.” 

“You’ll find her changed. She was quite a small girl 
when jmu went away. Now she’s grown up, and prides 
herself on being modern. Modern! It’s only a pose of 


THE STAIRCASE 67 

course. No woman knows the meaning of the w r ord, and 
nobody could be modern in a place like Hampshire. 
Kathleen is really as innocent as a child, a sweet girl, and 
a great favourite of mine. Dear me, is that the dinner 
gong?” 


CHAPTER VII 


KATHLEEN 

K athleen Chester sat in the old tower, deep 

in thought. The sunlight, falling through the 
open door, lighted on a face which charmed by its 
vivacious prettiness. Beauty is a rare and compelling 
force, but the fragile grace of girlhood makes a wider 
and more wistful appeal. Kathleen was pretty and de¬ 
lightful as only an English girl of twenty-one can be; 
graceful with the tender lines and curves of youth; typ¬ 
ically English, and Hampshire at that, with one of those 
clear oval faces which are the birthright of the girls of 
the county, dark-brow T n eyes (also of the county), and a 
sweet firm mouth. 

She looked very English and modern in her grey walk¬ 
ing costume and brown brogues. English she certainly 
was. She also believed herself to be a modern girl; but 
there she was mistaken. Her eyes had a deep and trust¬ 
ful glance full of the visions of youth. Still, if her eyes 
betrayed the idealist, there was latent strength of char¬ 
acter, and plenty of it, in her steadfast look and the set 
of her little chin. 

Kathleen was Sir Roger Lynngarth’s ward, a charge 
left to him by his old friend, Major Richard Chester— 
Mad Dick Chester, Dick of the Hintons, as they called 
him in the county—who had married a Hampshire girl 
beneath him in station, broken her heart, quarrelled with 
his family, wrecked his constitution and career, and died 
impoverished, all in the space of five short years. His 

widow died soon after, worshipping him to the last in 

68 



KATHLEEN 


69 


spite of his faults, or perhaps because of them, and Kath¬ 
leen, a dark-eyed mite of five, had been brought to Red- 
ways by Sir Roger, who had loved the dead man as a 
brother. He and his first wife had brought her up, loved 
her, and educated her like a daughter of their own, dis¬ 
daining to touch the interest on the two thousand pounds 
which she had inherited through her maternal grand¬ 
father, a close-fisted Hampshire farmer, who had tied up 
his daughter’s patrimony so that the scapegrace Dick 
Chester could not touch the principal. Views of money 
are comparative: to Farmer Enderly the two thousand 
represented wealth; the toilsome earnings of half a life¬ 
time, laboriously amassed for his girl’s comfort; to Sir 
Roger it was a mere fleabite, a beggarly pittance. His 
affection centred on Kathleen more and more as his own 
son disappointed him. Redways was entailed, but he 
could leave Kathleen enough to make her a considerable 
heiress, to say nothing of what Lady Mercer might do. 
Certainly the child was never likely to want for money. 

Kathleen was not thinking of her prospects at that 
moment in the old tower, where she always went when she 
wanted to be alone. 

The tower was the remnant of an abbey destroyed by 
Henry VIII. Seen from outside, it rose from the green 
earth like a withered tooth. Even the Normans could 
not build to defy Time, and all that was left of the ori¬ 
ginal abbey was the lofty belfry with the remains of two 
walls. The tower had survived as the strongest member 
of the family survives, but the masses of ivy which cov¬ 
ered the crumbling walls were after it, clutching its 
throat, and threatening to bring it down in the long run 
by sheer dead weight. But it was sturdy enough yet, 
and the oak platform in the turret where the bell hung 
was as sound as when it was built. 


70 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


Kathleen was thinking of Robert’s return—that un¬ 
expected return announced by a letter which had come 
by the morning’s post, shattering the serenity of their 
quiet lives like a thunderbolt from a clear sky. 

She had the strangest memories of the man who w T as 
supposed to be dead—memories in which love and fear 
came uppermost in turn. The earliest and deepest was 
affection for the fair-haired boy who had been like a big 
brother to her—had played with her and carried her in 
his arms. That was a dear and delightful recollection at 
times difficult to recall because it was so overlaid by later 
impressions. She recalled vividly how she had grieved 
over his departure twelve years before. That departure 
w T as connected in her mind with an air of depression which 
hung over the house for months afterwards. She remem¬ 
bered seeking news of him from Lady Lynngarth, and how 
that kind face had become suddenly distorted in a passion 
of weeping. She had caught her in her arms, crying, 
“My boy, will he ever come back?” And Kathleen, ter¬ 
rified by the loss of self-control in one she had never seen 
other than gracious and benignant, had clung to her say¬ 
ing passionately, “Never mind, auntie, you have me still 
—you have me still.” 

The fear was of more gradual growth, brought about 
by the realization that some strange mystery surrounded 
his disappearance from his father’s house. His absence 
was not spoken of, except by the servants, w r ho discussed 
it in whispers—with raised eyebrows. Nobody knew the 
reason—or if they knew they would not tell her. But 
she gathered in some way that father and son had quar¬ 
relled, and because of it Robert had gone away. 

She had often wistfully recalled his memory, this de¬ 
lightful playmate of her early days—the tall, laughing 
boy with fair hair and blue eyes, who used to swing her 


KATHLEEN 


71 


in his arms on the lawn, and take her swimming and fish¬ 
ing w r ith him. He had been her hero and her god. For 
weeks after he went away she had cried herself to sleep at 
nights, and in the daytime had wandered about the house 
looking for him, like a small dog seeking an absent mas¬ 
ter. The grown-ups were vague when she questioned 
them, after the way of grown-ups with children. And 
after Lady Lynngarth’s tears she asked no more questions. 
Her childish mind realized then that there were things 
she was not to know. In the course of time she had be¬ 
come reconciled, as one does when time passes. After 
Lady Lynngarth’s death her memory of the wanderer, 
kept alive till then by the dead woman’s sorrow, grew 
more dim. She began to grow up, to exchange the spon¬ 
taneity of childhood for the self-consciousness of girl¬ 
hood. She put up her hair, and with that act put away 
childish things forever. She believed that Robert had 
died—killed in the war was the accepted view. The war 
accounted for so many things. 

So the playmate of her childhood days passed out of 
her life and memory. For years he had been the faintest 
memory, and thought of rarely. 

And now? 

He had come back as suddenly as he had gone away. 
The years that had passed! It was twelve years since he 
had left home, and they had never heard of him—until 
now. Twelve years! She was grown up, in her twenties, 
with a woman’s outlook and intelligence and thoughts. 
How far-off those old days seemed! What had they in 
common now? He could not take her in his arms and 
swing her around the lawn. She smiled faintly at the 
idea. 

He might take her in his arms and kiss her, though. 
She flushed a little at the thought. 


72 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


A stoat, entering the tower on business of its own, 
stopped in consternation at the sight of the girl, fixing 
on her an eye which glinted ruddily, like a small red bead. 
The dog made a dash, but the stoat vanished through a 
chink in the old grey walls. The little terrier barked and 
made a futile effort to tear down the solid Norman 
masonry with his teeth. His excitement aroused Kath¬ 
leen. She looked at the watch on her wrist, and was 
startled at the lateness of the hour and the long shadows 
cast by a declining sun. 

“Come, Jack,” she said. 

The dog responded with a yelp, and led the way from 
the tower. From the edge of the wood a green slope ran 
down to the garden, but she took her way through the 
trees. The wood was dense and rather dark, and car¬ 
peted thick with bracken. Birds were not plentiful, but 
weasels and stoats throve in the thick cover, with shrews 
and water-voles, and a badger or two, on the banks of 
the river at the farther side. At night, tawny owls hooted 
in the thick trees. 

It was the longer way to the house, but Kathleen was 
fond of the wood, and liked to linger there in the deep 
quiet glades of oak and beech, now faintly bronzed. But 
this night she did not linger. It was already dusk, and 
she felt unaccountably nervous in the flickering elfin light. 
The dog had disappeared on some excursion into the 
undergrowth, after the manner of his kind, and night 
seemed closing in. 

She emerged at last into a leafy lane which widened 
and led to the meadows beside the river. It was lighter 
here, with the last rays of the sun falling like silver upon 
the river, giving the old thorns a new grace, and touch¬ 
ing the harebells by the water’s brink. Kathleen slack¬ 
ened her pace, making her way across the fields in the 


KATHLEEN 73 

mellow eventide. She felt ashamed now of her nervous¬ 
ness in the wood. 

The path led her by the river-side. She followed it 
quickly, still intent on her thoughts, until a bend of the 
stream brought Redways into view, lying in the hollow 
in front of her, not far away. 

Across the flats, between the river and the wood, a 
cottage stood at the end of a narrow lane. It was a 
small place set back in an old-fashioned garden full of 
hollyhocks, phloxes, and rambler roses drooping pink 
in a lush of green, with a front hedge and a white gate 
between two bushes of crimsoning haws. 

At the sight of the cottage Kathleen left the river path 
and turned towards it. She had to deliver a message 
from Sir Roger to the gamekeeper who lived there. She 
crossed the sward quickly, a slim and graceful figure, 
and entering the garden gate, knocked at the cottage 
door. 

There was no immediate response, then, after a min¬ 
ute’s pause, she heard a sound within. It was a peculiar 
sound, as of someone hopping about inside. It affected 
Kathleen’s nerves unpleasantly, though she had heard it 
before and knew what it meant. 

The door was opened by an unusual figure: tall and 
crippled, supporting himself by a crutch beneath his right 
arm. On one leg he hopped; the other swung uselessly, 
bent backwards as if in the act of kneeling, and encased 
from knee to ankle in plaster of Paris, which gave the 
limb a monstrous and unnatural shape. Apart from this 
deformity, the man was noticeable enough, of a supple 
and easy grace of outline which contrasted in the stran¬ 
gest fashion with his stiff and swollen leg. There was a 
hint of the Romany in the olive skin and eyebrows in 
straight black line; a suggestion of the hawk in the close 


74 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


glittering eyes above a sharply arched nose. Altogether, 
an unexpected being to come across in the capacity of 
gamekeeper upon an English gentleman’s estate. He 
was wearing a red cap on his head, but he removed it as he 
looked forth from his door-step and saw who his visitor 
was. 

“Good evening, miss. Will you be pleased to come 
inside?” 

He leapt backwards lightly and gracefully, and stood 
suspended on his crutch within, inviting a clear entry. 
The cottage had no passage, and the open door showed a 
small room with a score of bird-cages ranged along the 
walls. Some of the cages held birds, and others small 
animals. A parraquet glanced at Kathleen through 
wicker bars. Its next-door neighbours were a greenfinch 
and blue titmouse. Other birds, some English, some 
foreign, perched in shadow apparently headless, had 
retired for the night with their heads beneath their wings. 
And from somewhere in the cottage came a strange 
medicinal smell, sickly and unpleasant, which a naturalist 
would have classified as the odour of a colony of noctule 
bats. 

The gamekeeper, dark and lissome, despite his leg, 
stood amid his birds and animals, looking down upon 
Kathleen. In that attitude he conveyed the impression 
of some larger bird with a broken wing. He was—or had 
been—of migrant kind. His stay at Redways dated from 
his appearance in the quiet valley of Itchen one evening 
in the course of last summer, when his crutch had car¬ 
ried him up the carriage drive of the great house, to the 
old garden where Lady Lynngarth was snipping roses. 
There his migratory course had ended; at any rate, for 
the time being. Kathleen understood that Stella had 
relieved him, and afterwards Sir Roger—investigating 


KATHLEEN 


75 


his case or accepting his story as one wounded in the war, 
which came to the same thing—had made him a game- 
keeper on the estate, with duties which took into merciful 
account the handicap of a maimed leg. But the new 
gamekeeper showed surprising agileness in spite of that 
drawback, and, gun on shoulder, leaped about the coun¬ 
try-side in a mariner disturbing to simple country minds, 
unaccustomed to such methods of progression. He was 
not a popular figure with the rustics. He lived a solitary 
life in his cottage, and the naturalistic hobby which led 
him to fill the place with birds and animals, to say noth¬ 
ing of reptiles, did nothing to lessen the prevailing dis¬ 
favour with v r hich he w T as regarded by the native-born 
of the county of Gilbert White. 

Kathleen, a modern and educated young lady of pre¬ 
sumably more enlightened mind, disliked the man also, 
for no reason beyond having taken a dislike to his face 
at first sight. The gamekeeper bore himself towards her 
with respect, and she really had nothing against him; 
but the feeling remained, and she w r ondered w r hy Sir Roger 
employed him. That feeling was uppermost now, with 
the thought that the man had no right to ask her into 
his cottage. 

“No, thank you. I have called with a message from 
Sir Roger. He wants you to thin the rabbits on the far 
side of the w r ood, and dig out the burrows on the slope 
by the old abbey tower. They are far too numerous. 
Farmer Stone has been complaining. They have been 
destroying his crops.” 

“Very well, miss. I’ll see about it to-morrow.” 

“And Sir Roger wants the plan of the new fishing-hut 
which he lent you.” 

“Certainly, Miss Chester, I have it here.” He spoke 
these w T ords in the tone of an equal, hopping nearer to 


76 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


the door-way on his crutch. Balancing himself on that 
instrument, he plunged his hand into the pocket of his 
velveteen jacket, and drew forth a packet of papers which 
he looked through. While he was thus engaged, Kath¬ 
leen’s eye was caught by an envelope among the docu¬ 
ments—a small envelope of hand-made paper bearing the 
red crest and monogram of the Lynngarths. The girl 
w T ondered how this envelope had come into the game¬ 
keeper’s possession, for she was aware that Sir Roger 
used another and plainer stationery for sending out in¬ 
structions to the men employed on his estate. Its pres¬ 
ence in the gamekeeper’s pocket seemed all the more 
strange because it was blank and unaddressed. Then 
the man found the plan and handed it to her, and the 
crested envelope disappeared with the other papers back 
into his velveteen pocket. 

Kathleen hurried home in the faint evening glow. The 
terrier scampered ahead, unworried by time, and raced 
her across the garden and up the wide terraced steps. 
Inside the shuttered and lighted house she met the par¬ 
lourmaid, who looked at her w T ith faint surprise. Kath¬ 
leen spoke to the girl rather breathlessly: 

“Tell me, Moira, has Mr. Lynngarth arrived yet?” 

“Oh, yes, miss, some time ago. I opened the door to 
him.” 

Kathleen glanced round nervously. “I’m very late.” 

“Yes, miss. Dinner will be served in ten minutes, 
miss.” 

From the hall came the sound of voices. Kathleen 
could distinguish Lady Mercer’s tones, and the note of a 
masculine voice which was new to her. Could it be Rob¬ 
ert’s? She thrilled at that assumption, listening intently. 
No; she could not identify that subdued murmur, but 
perhaps that was not so strange—after twelve years. 



KATHLEEN 77 

Her hesitating footsteps took her nearer, and she laid 
her hand upon the door- 

No! She could not face him then and meet him thus 
after twelve years. She knew that she was flushed and 
dishevelled, hair blown about her face, her walking skirt 
muddy and covered with brambles. Stella was in there 
as well as Lady Mercer, for she could hear her voice: 
Stella, immaculate and beautiful, in her wonderful eve¬ 
ning clothes. That would be too much of a contrast. 
Thinking thus, Kathleen caught a glimpse of her own 
flushed cheeks and tumbled hair in a mirror close by, and 
smiled rather ruefully. She decided to run up to her 
room by way of the servants’ staircase, and put on her 
prettiest dress, before the great ordeal. 

The startling sound of the gong for dinner sent her 
scurrying down the corridor with flying feet, like Cin¬ 
derella at the stroke of twelve. And as she sped she told 
herself that she must dress in five minutes—ten at the 
outside. 



CHAPTER VIII 

ROBERT LYNNGARTH’s STORY 


W ITH her fingers on the handle of the dining¬ 
room door, Kathleen paused. From within 
came the decorous clatter of knives and forks, 
and a murmur of voices dominated by Lady Mercer’s 
clear high tone. Fearing her courage if she hesitated 
longer, Kathleen opened the door and walked in. 

An oblong panelled room, rich in colouring, hung with 
pictures, a company around a glittering table of damask 
drooping in stiffly perfect folds: this scene met her gaze. 
She caught the faint frosty gleam of Sir Roger’s disap¬ 
proving pince-nez directed towards her as her eyes rested 
upon the seated figures at table—travelled round them 
questioningly, nervously . . . 

Robert had risen. Their eyes met. He came straight 
towards her with both hands held out, and wondered 
should he kiss her. 

“My Lady Fibbets—grown up,” was all he said, in a 
voice the others could not hear. 

His look thrilled her. She felt absurdly small and 
inconsequential standing there, looking up at the tall 
bronzed man who did not in the least resemble the fair¬ 
haired boy of her childhood days. His eyes alone re¬ 
minded her of his boyhood: she seemed to see the blue 
eyes of Robert smiling at her as though from a great 
distance—through the mists of time. They were his eyes, 

and yet- In their depths was an expression which 

had not been in the eyes of her old companion: something 

she could not define, but she wished it had not been there. 

78 





ROBERT LYNN GARTH’S STORY 


79 


It was a look which implied much without revealing it: 
the hidden events of twelve years—those years of which 
she knew nothing. It was the look of one who had been 
through the bitter mill of experience, and seen corroding 
things; but she did not know that. All she realized was 
that he had changed. His eyes seemed to probe her, 
but her own did not waver. Handsome? Oh, yes, he 
was handsome, in a kind of fierce, wild way, but he was 
not a bit like the well-bred and good-looking English boy 
whom she remembered so well. He had gone, never to 
return. She had never feared him, but this new Robert 
Lynngarth . . . Ah, the years, “the years that the 
locust had eaten”! 

“You have changed,” she murmured, and despised her¬ 
self for that banal remark, but she felt helpless, and could 
think of nothing else. 

“And you have grown into a woman,” he said simply. 

“Yes—I suppose so,” she mechanically assented. 

“We cannot talk of old times just now, Kathleen. We 
must wait until we are alone—in the morning.” 

He looked at her with smiling inquiry. She made a 
diffident gesture of assent. His instant recognition of 
the old understanding between them thrilled her by its 
spontaneity. In spirit he was unchanged: he had been 
thinking of her as she had thought of him. He picked up 
their past years where they had been broken off, with 
a complete and eager expectation of her ready response. 
That attitude elated her—filled her with shy inward joy. 
He had felt the ache, the miss, too! The thought seemed 
to lift the weight of the years and bring back the Robert 
Lynngarth of old. Touched and moved, she looked up 
at him with slightly flushed face, but did not speak. 

Her reply, if meditated, remained unspoken. Mrs. 
Horbury rose from her place at table and swooped down 


80 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


upon her like a motherly hen, clucking endearments, peck¬ 
ing kisses at her vivid cheek. How well she was looking! 
But there—there was nothing like country air to give 
girls a colour. And Robert too—the 'picture of health. 
What did Kathleen think of him—the naughty returned 
wanderer! She must make him tell them what he had 
been doing with himself all these years. And so on, until 
the enthusiastic lady had to pull up to take a long 
breath, and lapsed into silence, panting benevolently. 

Thus the moment of their first meeting passed, and with 
it all the things Kathleen had meant to say. But there 
was always the morning. She took her place at the table. 
Lady Mercer’s eyes dwelt upon her. 

“Where have you been, Kathleen?” she asked. 

“I was walking, and went into the abbey tower to rest. 
I’m sorry I’m late.” 

From his place Robert looked across at her as if about 
to speak, then changed his mind and kept silence. 

At the head of the table Stella looked still and remote 
as an Alpine flower, the soft waxlights falling on the 
wonderful shade of her golden hair and downcast face. 
Kathleen looked like a flower too—a flower of different, 
more English type, vivid and sweet-bloomed. Mrs. Hor- 
bury’s face was in colour like a red rose above the same 
white cloth, but there her own resemblance to a flower 
ended. Robert looked grave and preoccupied. Kathleen, 
eyes busier than knife and fork, wondered what he was 
thinking of. It was not the happy look of a man return¬ 
ing to his home after twelve years’ absence. But, then, 
he might be thinking of his mother. How strange it 
was for him to come back after all these years and find 
his mother gone and another woman in her place! Once 
she thought she caught his eye across the table, and 
smiled at him, but he did not smile back. She was a 



ROBERT LYNNGARTH’S STORY 


81 


little hurt at that, but concluded that his thoughts were 
elsewhere, and that he had not noticed her. She would 
have been astonished had she known that Robert’s 
thoughts were indeed far away from that glittering table 
and the company around it, back on his island, alone 
among his birds, and that the ceaseless burden of his 
unspoken thought was: “Fool, fool, for coming back.” 

Towards the end of the meal there was some conversa¬ 
tion, led by Sir Roger, who discoursed on political sub¬ 
jects, such as the good intentions of America, Anglo- 
French relations, and the Irish problem. Glenluce and 
Stonnard talked with him, and little Mr. Horbury fixed 
his eyes on his host with the air of one favoured with 
the revelation o^ some divine oracle, bowing his head 
from time to time to show how deeply he was treasuring 
the words of wisdom. 

Afterwards, in the drawing-room, the atmosphere 
thawed. The drawing-room was the most modern interior 
of the house, and had been redecorated in pink and gold 
in honour of Sir Roger’s young bride. She now flitted 
about the room like a bird in its bower, hovered from 
gramophone to piano, and back again. But there was 
no suggestion of music. The return of Robert was not, 
in view of everything, an occasion for gay sounds, and 
there was always Lady Mercer to be considered when 
the question of music was in the air. Lady Mercer had 
decided tastes in that direction. Fortunately she had 
not yet seen the new gramophone bought by Sir Roger 
for his young wife to lighten the tedium of winter evenings 
in the country, and hidden behind a large screen in a cor¬ 
ner of the room. Lady Mercer did not dislike gramo¬ 
phones, but she would have regarded such an instrument 
in a house like Redways as unworthy of the traditions of 
the place. 


82 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


Outside, the night descended heavy and dark. Within, 
the occupants of the drawing-room showed a disposition 
to animation, the result of good food, wine, bright lights, 
and a pretty room. The awkwardness of the first meeting 
had passed away. Robert, now animated, stood chatting 
to Glenluce and Stonnard, who were questioning him about 
the Far East. His hearers heard him with an interest 
■which in Glenluce’s case was specially marked. Sir Roger 
listened a little part, his eyes resting on his son with 
a milder look. In appearance Robert was a son of whom 
any father might feel proud. Glenluce, at least, was 
strongly attracted to him. It was, on the whole, the most 
human and sociable moment of Robert’s return. 

The ladies formed a group apart, three of them talking, 
and Stella quiet, after her wont. Mrs. Horbury harped 
on Robert’s return. She was lost in w r onder at it as at a 
miracle. Her eyes kept glancing towards him. 

“He has grown very like his father,” she said. 

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Kathleen involuntarily. 

“He will be—in another thirty years,” said Lady 
Mercer dryly. 

Kathleen tried to picture Robert looking like his father 
in thirty years’ time, but failed. She looked from Sir 
Roger to his son, and back again. It was the difference 
between ice and fire. Yet a fire could die out and become 
a heap of ashes. Robert had changed—oh, greatly 
changed—in twelve years. But would he ever become 
frigid—an iceberg—like his father? No, that was im¬ 
possible. 

“I don’t see why the men should keep Robert to them¬ 
selves after all these years,” remarked Lady Mercer. She 
raised her voice: “Robert, come here. We want to talk 
to you.” 

He came at once, with a smile. 



ROBERT LYNN GARTH’S STORY 83 

“Sit down in that chair, my dear boy,” she said, “and 
tell us something about yourself.” 

“I’m afraid I’ve nothing worth telling,” he said. 

“You ought to be like a popular edition of The Arabian 
Nights she rejoined, “full of amazing tales. Come, 
recount your adventures to us—suitably expurgated, of 
course, for feminine ears.” 

He laughed outright at that, and it was good to hear 
him, Kathleen thought. He had a laugh like a boy’s, 
clear and ringing. 

“What am I to tell you?” he asked. 

“Tell us the truth.” She flashed on him one of her 
shrewd glances. “Didn’t I hear you say just now that 
you’d been living on an island somewhere or other? Tell 
us about that.” 

“I’m afraid that would only bore you,” he rejoined 
deprecatingly. “It was an uncivilized sort of place.” 

“All the better,” retorted the old lady. “I’m bored 
to death with civilization—taxation, politicians, motor¬ 
cars, picture papers, and all the rest of it. I’d live on 
your island myself if I thought these things wouldn’t 
follow me there.” 

“My island is less interesting than civilization,” said 
Robert, with a smile. “Nothing but seabirds—gulls and 
albatrosses—and that kind of thing.” 

“A sweet bird—the albatross, I mean,” murmured 
Mrs. Horbury vaguely, with some confused idea that an 
albatross was a talking bird she had seen in a Putney 
bird-shop, white, with a yellow crest. “A poetic bird!” 

“Come now, Robert,” said Lady Mercer. “You hear 
that? Tell us about your poetic birds! I’ve more poetry 
in my composition than you’d imagine.” 

“Emmeline recites poetry admirably,” remarked little 
Mr. Horbury, to nobody in particular. 



84 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“Indeed!” said Lady Mercer. “Then some day we 
must hear her. But just now Robert is going to talk to 
us. Stella, don’t you w^ant to hear about this island of 
Robert’s?” 

“Yes,” was the response, given with a slight fluttering 
smile, and a glance of her golden-brown eyes in Robert’s 
direction. She laid aside her magazine and drew nearer. 

Robert Lynngarth looked down on her for a moment, 
then turned to Lady Mercer. 

“Very well,” he said, “I’ll talk about the island until 
I’ve bored you.” 

He drew up a chair and began to talk, diffidently at 
first, with an eye for the first symptoms of boredom in his 
listeners, but easily and discursively, of odd nooks and 
corners of the world where he had been. He did not say 
what had taken him so far afield and off the beaten track. 
His was a narrative of external impressions, of strange 
scenes, deftly told and brightly coloured, but revealing 
nothing of himself beyond the fact that he had been many 
things in turn, but nothing for long. Apparently adven¬ 
ture was for ever calling him—beckoning him on with 
elusive finger: an unending quest which led him ultimately 
to that remote island in the South Pacific. 

This part of his story was lightly conveyed, but to one 
of his hearers it brought up a vision of loneliness and 
solitude she was ever to remember: a scene sombre and 
mysterious as the setting of a dream. Kathleen seemed 
to see the crying birds, the glittering cliffs, a sun setting 
in deep waters, leaving Robert Lynngarth in darkness 
there, like the last man in the world. She shivered a little 
at that thought, and wondered why he had gone there, 
away from everybody. She noticed that he said nothing 
of that, nor how the letter reached him which had brought 
him back to England. But that she was to learn later. 


ROBERT LYNNGARTH’S STORY 


85 


Suddenly it came to her, she knew not why, that Rob¬ 
ert’s story had some special significance, greater than his 
words conveyed. There was some under-current, some¬ 
thing deeper still. He was talking now with an intensity 
and eagerness which had been lacking at first. Kathleen 
gathered the curious impression that he had forgotten 
his group of auditors, and was addressing himself to 
some invisible intelligence for a hidden purpose of his 
own. That seemed an absurd idea, yet she could not 
altogether banish it from her mind. She glanced round 
the circle of hearers. Glenluce and Stonnard were deeply 
interested in his story, and so was Lady Mercer. Sir 
Roger’s face revealed nothing. Little Mr. Horbury sat 
as though listening to a sermon. His wife, next to him, 
was half asleep. Stella sat a little apart, with downcast 
eyes. Glancing tow r ards Robert, Kathleen observed that 
he was looking directly at the pensive and beautiful face 
of his father’s young wife. 

There was nothing strange about that of course— 
Stella was so beautiful that Kathleen could well under¬ 
stand the returned son looking at the woman who occupied 
the place of the mother he had journeyed so far to see; 
but at that moment Stella looked slowly up, smiled into 
Robert’s face, and dropped her eyes again. 

It was a strange smile with the eyes only, and instantly 
veiled—inscrutable yet provocative, with a hint of some¬ 
thing more in its dazzling golden depths. It was a smile 
which shocked some unsealed virginal primness in Kath¬ 
leen’s breast, though she was far from understanding its 
true nature and meaning. She only felt that Stella had no 
right to smile at Robert like that considering the relation¬ 
ship between them. Then, being a healthy-minded girl, 
she took herself to task for thinking such a thing. A 
smile—what harm could there be in a smile? 




86 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


Still, the smile was strange when contrasted with a 
scene at the breakfast table that morning. Kathleen 
musingly recalled it now. Jauncey, putting Stella’s let¬ 
ters beside her, had placed the fateful letter from Robert 
on the top of the heap. That was a sufficiently disturb¬ 
ing document to be inadvertently opened by a second wife 
—a letter from an absent son to a dead mother. It 
accounted also for the scene that followed—Stella’s pallor 
and tears, her hasty departure from the breakfast-room 
with a sympathetic husband in her wake. . Kathleen alone 
had seen that Stella started suddenly when she picked 
up the envelope before she was aware of the contents 
within. What was there in that unknown handwriting 
to cause her fear or even surprise? Kathleen could not 
guess. And if Stella was sent into a tremor by the con¬ 
tents of the letter itself, and had seemed to dread the 
coming of the long-absent son, how was it that she now 
smiled at Robert in a way Kathleen had never seen her 
smile before? 

These were things Kathleen did not comprehend, but 
indeed she had long since given up trying to understand 
Sir Roger’s second wife. She was beautiful—the most 
beautiful thing Kathleen had ever seen—but there was 
something mysterious about her also. Kathleen had tried 
hard to be friends with Stella at first, but Stella had 
kept her at arm’s length. Apparently she was one of 
those women who go alone, who dislike or fear their own 
sex, and do not seek their friendship. Kathleen reflected 
that, although she had lived under the same roof with 
Stella for nearly three years, they were still almost as 
complete strangers to each other as at the beginning, 
when Sir Roger first brought his young wife to Redways. 
They met at meals, talked, sometimes played tennis to¬ 
gether, and gave Sir Roger music in the drawing-room 


ROBERT LYNNGARTH’S STORY 


87 


after dinner, but there was no real communion or affinity 
between them. Kathleen was an outdoor girl, fond of 
walking, while Stella was indolent, loved shade rather 
than sunshine, kept much to the old garden and the house, 
where she passed a passive luxurious life which to Kath¬ 
leen seemed rather unworthy of the mistress of Redways. 
But that was Sir Roger’s affair—not hers, and Sir Roger 
adored his young w r ife and could see no fault in her. 
The servants liked her too, and so did Lady Mercer. 
Kathleen neither liked nor disliked her. To the girl she 
was a dim and unapproachable figure, living alone with 
her beauty like a goddess in a temple, but rather over¬ 
weighted with her present part. 

Now, for the first time, she felt that she disliked her, 
because of that smile. It was a revelation of her hidden 
temperament, but a revelation which Kathleen was unable 
to read aright. Again, she conscientiously checked this 
line of thought, accusing herself of a lack of charity. 

Robert finished as abruptly as he had commenced. 
“I’m afraid I’ve been boring you,” he said apologeti¬ 
cally. 

“I am sure it has been most interesting,” said Mrs. 
Horbury politely. 

“I wish you’d take me to see your island,” said Stella. 

The words were spoken idly enough, but there was a 
sparkle in her eyes, as though the story had given a savour 
to a listless hour. Lady Mercer smiled indulgently. 

“You’d better take us all there, Robert. The place 
ought to be worth seeing, if only for the absence of 
politicians and motor-cars.” 

“I’d have to carry you ashore,” he replied in the same 

spirit. 

“Oh, do let’s all go!” exclaimed Stella eagerly, like a 
child. 


88 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“You have had a lonely life,” observed Glenluce to 
Robert. “Do you find England much changed?” 

“Changed—certainly, but still England. London seems 
to have grown bigger too.” 

“I can hardly imagine living in a place beyond a rail¬ 
way journey from London,” said Glenluce. 

“London is a kind of magnet for Englishmen,” said 
Robert Lynngarth with a smile. 

“An Englishman must get out of touch with civiliza¬ 
tion—out there.” The speaker was Stonnard, and his 
vague gesture seemed to encircle the whole globe outside 
of England. 

“You get into a different way of looking at things, 
certainly,” was the reply. 

“In what respect?” asked Stonnard. 

“You return with the feeling that England is the true 
outpost of Empire—a country of undiscovered islanders.” 

Lady Mercer smiled, but Stonnard looked puzzled. 

“London is the centre of the world,” he said. “If 
one wants to do anything, there is no place like London 
to do it in.” 

“It depends upon w T hat one wants to do,” rejoined 
Robert Lynngarth tersely. 

“We all w^ant to do the same thing, I fancy.” 

“For instance?” 

“Well, all men want success.” 

“What do you mean by success? Power, money, or 
influence?” 

“Money is everything,” rejoined Stonnard. “The other 
things go with money.” 

Robert looked at Glenluce. 

“What do you say, Colonel Glenluce?” 

“I am inclined to agree with Stonnard. Money is 
everything nowadays—since the war.” 




ROBERT LYNNGARTH’S STORY 


89 


“Money is a great power for good, used aright,” 
remarked Sir Roger, speaking for the first time. 

“I’ve heard that before, Roger,” murmured Lady 
Mercer. 

“I cannot agree with you,” said Robert Lynngarth, 
glancing around him. “There is a greater thing than 
money. Ereedom, liberty, are better worth having.” 

His father lifted his head and turned his pince-nez on 
him, but did not speak. 

“No man is free,” said Glenluce thoughtfully. 

Robert turned to him. “In civilization, no; but I was 
not thinking of civilization.” 

“Of what, then?” said Glenluce. “If you are going to 
do away with all things-” 

“If you want freedom you must first have money,” 
Stonnard broke in. “The world is run on money.” 

“Your world—yes. But there are more worlds than 
yours. Money is nothing—really.” 

Robert spoke in such an earnest voice that Glenluce 
considered him with interest. He was changed: vigorous 
and natural, like a man who had snapped some invisible 
restraint, and stepped forth free. His eyes were sparkling 
and his cheeks flushed. Across the circle their eyes met. 
Glenluce spoke. 

“Men will do much to get money, and more still to keep 
it,” he said with a smile. 

Robert looked him full in the face for the first time. 

“1 once came across a gold-mine,” he said, “an aurifer¬ 
ous dry river-bed in New Guinea—German New Guinea 
then, before the war. It was in the interior, and a native 
showed me the place. There was plenty of gold there— 
the outcrop was rich enough, at all events.” 

“An interesting find,” said Glenluce. “What did you 
do with it?” 




90 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“The gold? Nothing. I was only too glad to get 
away with my life. New Guinea is a fearsome place of 
cannibals, swamps, alligators, and dengue fever. It has 
a kind of sinister charm, though, for all that.” 

Stonnard, listening, lifted an eyebrow. “That’s too 
self-sacrificing for me. Catch me relinquishing a mine 
if I ever had the luck to find one!” 

“If the mine had been diamonds I might have stayed,” 
said Robert. 

“Why diamonds more than gold?” asked Glenluce 
curiously. 

“Because their beauty lasts for ever. A diamond has 
purity and passion—rarest of combinations! A cold 
surface, but a heart of fire. Hardness is needed to pre¬ 
serve beauty—in a world like this. A perfect emerald is 
perhaps more beautiful, but-” 

Again Glenluce glanced at the speaker, with interest. 

“But what?” he asked, as he came to a pause. 

“The beauty is evanescent. It tarnishes, and is easily 
destroyed by rough usage.” 

Stella glanced down at her right hand, on which 
gleamed an emerald—her husband’s gift to her on their 
wedding day. Her eyes also sought his face, but he was 
looking straight before him. 

“I wish you would tell us something more about that 
mine you discovered,” Stonnard said, after a pause. 
“Could you find it again?” 

“I could. I have a map—a plan shall I say?—of the 
track back to the coast. Markings and bearings—that 
sort of thing. And I brought back a nugget with me— 
broken off the outcrop. I’ll show it to you to-morrow, 
if you’re interested.” 

“I should like to see it.” 



ROBERT LYNN GARTH’S STORY 91 

“There’s a fortune there, lying fallow.” He laughed 
shortly. 

“It may have been discovered since?” suggested 
Glenluce. 

“No; for you’d have heard of it. The world would 
have rung with the news. It’s a rich field, and all the 
gluttonous little adventurers of the world would have 
flocked there, like flies at treacle.” 

Stonnard wondered. “You’ve never given it another 
thought ?” 

“No,” said Robert tersely. “I want no gold.” 

“Ah, if you had!” said Stella softly. “Gold—money 
—is good when you need it.” 

She flashed a swift look at him—a look which Kathleen 
alone saw. Again it seemed to her to have some special 
significance, and again she told herself that she was mis¬ 
taken. 


CHAPTER IX 


AFTER LONG YEARS 

T HEY were three at breakfast—Sir Roger, Kath¬ 
leen, and Stonnard. Glenluce had gone back to 
London by an early train, the Horburys were in¬ 
veterate late risers, and Stella and Lady Mercer preferred 
to breakfast in their rooms. Lady Mercer had told 
Robert the night before that he must not expect to see 
her at the morning meal. “No woman of my age should 
show herself before dusk,” she remarked. “Women think 
nowadays that art can make them look young at sixty, 
but that’s nonsense. I prefer to entertain old age in 
my room alone. But I shall see you later, Robert.” 

Robert’s absence remained unexplained, and passed 
without comment by his father. Sir Roger had other 
things to occupy his mind—important letters from Lon¬ 
don, predicting the rising of a political storm. He dis¬ 
cussed the situation w T ith Stonnard. It was only Kath¬ 
leen, eyes wistfully alert, who watched the door for the 
missing son who had returned from abroad on the pre¬ 
vious night. 

He entered as his father and Stonnard departed by 
the opposite door to answer letters so important to the 
kingdom at large. Perhaps he had waited for that mo¬ 
ment ; Kathleen, at least, was not inclined to quarrel 
w r ith a move which suggested that he wished to talk to 
her alone. She smiled at him as he came in, and he 
came to where she was sitting and stood looking down 
at her. 


92 


AFTER LONG YEARS 93 

“Lady Fibbets,” he said, “this carries me back. This 
seems to bridge the years.” 

She felt nearer to him then than at any moment since 
his return, but she did not speak. 

Jauncey appeared as if by magic to superintend break¬ 
fast for the late arrival. He hovered around, a noiseless 
minister, uncovering dishes and adjusting spirit-flames. 
His eye, catching the late-comer’s, interrogated his de¬ 
sires. 

“Anything you would like, sir?” he murmured. 

“There’s plenty here,” said Robert, glancing at the 
sideboard. 

As Jauncey vanished through the doorway he poured 
out a cup of coffee and helped himself to a piece of dry 
toast. These viands consumed, he turned to Kathleen. 

“I want no more breakfast. Let us go into the garden. 
We can talk there.” 

She ran for a garden hat, and was back in an instant, 
her fresh young face glancing up at him from shady head- 
gear. He smiled at her. 

“You have not changed much, Lady Fibbets.” 

His voice seemed to envelop her like a wave. She 
was conscious, however, of the contrast between his tone 
and his troubled eyes. He turned and unfastened a 
window of the breakfast-room which opened upon terrace 
and lawrn. 

They stepped outside into the garden, already a festival 
of light and perfume. Sunshine flooded grass and par¬ 
terre, glittered upon the bronze girl, and flashed through 
the spray of water in the dolphin’s mouth, giving it an 
iridescent tint. Robert Lynngarth stood for a moment 
looking down into the pond beneath, where dragon-flies 
darted among floating water-lilies, and carp hovered 
lazily in the clear still depths. Then he turned to the 


94 ISLAND OF DESTINY 

old sundial near, and scanned the old Latin inscription. 

“Time flies,” he murmured. “True, unfortunately true, 
for all of us. That wouldn’t matter so much if it didn’t 
shake us off as it flew. ‘The bird is on the wing’—do 
you remember that, Kathleen? A sinister kind of bird, 
this Time! Still, I might have marked its flight better 
with this old sundial to remind me. It would have been 
useful on my island.” 

“I should like to see your island,” she said simply. 
“Perhaps you may, some day, Lady Fibbets,” he re¬ 
joined. 

She was silent, looking across the garden. He went on: 
“Did you ever write to me there, Lady Fibbets?” 

Her eyes looked her amazement. “I—I do not under¬ 
stand,” she faltered. “What do you mean?” 

“Not now!” He met her wonderment with a whim¬ 
sical smile. “Do not ask me to explain—at present. 
At this moment I need all my faculties to realize that 
I’m back at Redways and in the old garden with you. 
The bird of Time has fluttered off w T ith twelve years of 
our lives, but just now I’m holding him by the wings. 
This is our morning, Lady Fibbets.” 

She glanced quickly at him, and her eyes were bright. 
“Yes,” she said, in a low tone. 

“Then let us take a walk to some of the old spots. 
You shall act as guide, and I’ll see how well I remember 

them. ” 

She assented with a smile, and they left the garden, 
walking easily. Kathleen was rather thoughtful just 

then. There was a note in his demeanour which struck 
her as rather forced—though not on her account, she 
hoped. He ought to be happy at that moment for his 
own sake. But was he? He struck her as one with 
something on his mind, and over-acting his part a little 



AFTER LONG YEARS 


95 


in consequence. She lifted timid eyes to his bronzed face, 
but could gather nothing there. 

She turned into a path which led across the fields to 
the churchyard. He kept silence, ’walking beside her 
until they neared the gate. Then he stopped, looking 
full at her. 

“Where are you taking me?” he asked. 

“The churchyard,” she said gently. “I thought you 
would like to come here first.” 

“No,” he said gravely, stopping her with a look she 
did not understand. “Not now. I was there, earlier, 
before you were up. Let us go to the old tower on the 
hill.” His hand pointed to its grey shape against the 
sky. “I was up there this morning too.” 

She agreed, as she would have to any suggestion of 
his, and they turned their faces in the direction of the 
green slope w T hich the grey crag topped. When they 
reached it she looked at him with a smile. 

“Do you remember w T here we kept the key?” 

His face went blank at that, and her own fell a little 
as she noted it. She removed a loose stone from the 
wall and showed a key hidden within. 

“It was a secret between us in the old days,” she 
reminded him, “but not now.” 

He nodded with a smile, and entered the tower. In 
the glancing rays of the sun they stood, looking round 
them. The place had its memories for them both. It 
was shadowy in the recesses, but outside the sunshine 
danced and flickered in the wood. Robert’s eyes sought 
the short flight of stairs leading to the bell-tower. Yield¬ 
ing to an impulse, he went across and mounted them, 
and Kathleen followed suit. 

Together they looked round them again. They were 
in a small square room of solid stone, lit by a narrow slit 


96 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


in the masonry high up. A rope dangled from the dark¬ 
ness above their heads and fell in a festoon at their feet. 
Looking up into the shadow of the tower, they could 
just discern an oaken platform and the shape of the 
hidden bell. 

“I wonder when the bell was last rung?” said Robert. 

‘‘When the abbey was destroyed by Henry VIII,” she 
rejoined. “Have you forgotten the old legend?” 

He laughed. “If the bell hasn’t been rung since Tudor 
days, the rope would have rotted away before this. It 
looks too strong to be hundreds of years old. Perhaps 
there has been a new rope since. I wonder if the bell 
rings?” 

He stretched a hand out, but she stepped quickly 
between him and the rope, exclaiming: 

“What are you going to do?” 

“I thought of trying the bell—of ringing a peal in 
honour of my return.” 

“Oh, no, no!” She spoke in agitation. “Don’t do 
that. Surely you’ve not forgotten the story? It’s the 
Abbot’s bell.” 

He lifted questioning brows. 

“The ghost of the Abbot believed to haunt Redways,” 
she explained. “He rang the bell as he was struck down, 
and prophesied that if the bell ever rang again it would 
foretell the fall of the house—of the Lynngarths, who 
had wrecked his church and stolen his lands at the bidding 
of the brutal Henry. Oh, do not ring it, please.” 

“The best way to prevent the fulfilment of the curse 
would be to remove the rope,” he said. “It’s a wonder 
some one has not rung the bell before now, out of 
curiosity.” 

“Nobody visits the tower except me, and I never come 
up here. Let us go down. I do not like this place.” 



AFTER LONG YEARS 


97 


Robert took this with a smile. “I did not know you 
were superstitious, Lady Fibbets. Let us go down, if 
you wish.” 

They went down again to the lower part of the tower. 
Here Kathleen took her favourite seat, elbows on knees, 
chin on hands, looking out on the gleaming tracery of 
silver in the wood. 

“I come here when I want to be alone,” she told him, 
adding rather shyly: “I w T as here yesterday, before you 
arrived.” 

“I know,” he rejoined. 

“You knew!” she exclaimed. “How did you know?” 

“I saw you.” 

With her eyes upon him he explained. She listened, 
rather disappointed that he had not thought proper to 
come to her then—before the others. Unaware of her 
feeling, he went on: 

“Have I changed much, Lady Fibbets?” 

She considered the question gravely, then said 
frankly: 

“Yes; greatly changed.” 

“Would you have known me—otherwise?” 

An almost imperceptible shake of the head was her 
answer. 

“Do you wish to know what brought me back?” 

Again a slight movement of the head, this time in 
affirmation. 

With her eyes still fixed on the sunlight filtering 
through the bracken, she listened as he told her of the 
dead sailor who had drifted out of the storm to the island 
with a mail-bag in his hand. He spoke of it as chance— 
the one incredible chance which had brought him back 
to England and Redways. 

“There was a letter in the bag for me,” he said. 



98 ISLAND OF DESTINY 

“From your mother?” she asked, in quick interroga¬ 
tion. 

He hesitated. “Yes,” he assented. Some obscure 
reason, deep down, prompted him to say nothing of her 
own childish letter which had been enclosed with the 
other, perhaps because she had so completely forgotten it. 

She sat quite still, making no movement. The sun¬ 
light had shifted, and her face w r as indistinct. It was 
partly turned away, and he could see only a vague pro¬ 
file, shaded by heavy dark hair, and a small white ear. 
He wondered if she doubted him—if she disbelieved his 
story. It sounded far-fetched, impossible even, told now. 
Yet it had happened. An impulse came to him to con¬ 
vince her that he had spoken the truth. He raised his 
voice a little: 

“It was that letter, so strangely delivered, which 
brought me back to England. If it had not reached 
me—been sent to me, perhaps—I would never have re¬ 
turned.” 

“Did you bring the letter back with you?” asked a 
tremulous voice from the shade. 

He took it from his pocket-book and opened it care¬ 
fully ; a yellow sheet stained and rotted by sea-water. 

“This is it,” he said. 

She held out her hand, and could just decipher the 
faded handwriting. 

“Can you read it?” he asked. 

She nodded, head bent over it. After a few minutes’ 
silence she handed it back, and there were tears in her 
eyes. 

He restored it to his pocket-book before he spoke. 

“I could not disobey that sign.” 

The sadness of his voice thrilled her, and brought the 
whole strange thing before her like a vision. It floated 


AFTER LONG YEARS 


99 


before her eyes as in a mirror; his solitary figure in flying 
spume by a forsaken shore, watching a corpse tossing in 
the waves. 

There was a pause before he spoke: 

“I suppose it was foolish to come back to England 
after all these years.” 

He stood up and walked about the narrow space, eyes 
fixed on the ground. From the shade she watched him 
with serious eyes. His lips moved: 

“Sentiment—the folly of a fool.” 

Her ears, extraordinarily quick, caught the faint whis¬ 
per of words she was not meant to hear. They brought 
to her a perception of the truth, as she supposed, that 
he had come to life again solely for his dead mother’s 
sake. Hers was the sensation, with that realization, of 
a sleeper awakened from a glad dream. She spoke rather 
f alter ingly: 

“You are sorry you came back, then?” 

Her tone, rather than her words, caught his ear. He 
looked towards her, trying to see her clearly. 

“It was worth all to come back and see you once again, 
Lady Fibbets.” 

He uttered the childish name with an indescribable 
cadence which set her heart beating, looking at her with 
the old boyish glance she remembered so well—the first 
time she had seen it on his face since his return. She 
moved a little nearer to him, and he caught the hand 
which hung at her side and pressed it to his lips. 

“If that were all,” he breathed. 

But again she caught the words. 

“All?” Her hand rested passively in his grasp, but 
her guileless eyes met his inquiringly. “All—what?” 

“The years,” he replied. “The years I have thrown 
away doing all sorts of useless things in far countries. 



» 


t > 
> > ) 


100 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


I have wasted the years, Lady Fibbets, and we have none 
too many to squander. One does not realize that until 
too late.” 

“That was not what you meant,” she said, her candid 
glance still upon him. 

“My dear girl!” he murmured, but did not explain, 
as she hoped. “There are things I want to know”— 
he spoke now in a different voice—“things which you alone 
can tell me. My mother, I want to hear about her. Did 
she suffer much? Did she speak of me? You know— 
you remember all.” 

She looked at him wdth gentle eyes. “Yes; I remem¬ 
ber. I used to sit with her sometimes, and she often 
talked of you. She believed that you were still alive, 
and would return some day.” 

He was touched by her simple words, and was silent. 
When he spoke again he was deeply moved: 

“How long ago did it happen?” 

“Five years ago—at Christmas. They buried her two 
days before Christmas Day. The snow was on the 
ground. There w T ere only a few there—that was her 
wish. We sang a favourite old hymn of hers, ‘Nearer, 
my God, to Thee.’ ” 

Robert Lynngarth, staring gloomily before him, seemed 
to be picturing this last scene: the grey churchyard set 
in leafless trees, the black and gaping vault, the knot of 
mourners in the snow singing in quavering unison for 
one who had been swept aw r ay into the river of nothing¬ 
ness. His mother had often sung that hymn to him 
in her sweet clear voice. 

He broke a profound silence with an unexpected ques¬ 
tion: 

“How did my father come to marry again?” 

“I know very little about that,” she replied in sur- 




AFTER LONG YEARS 


101 


prise. “Sir Roger went up to London on a visit, and 
then wrote to tell us he was going to marry. The wed¬ 
ding was shortly afterwards, and after the honeymoon he 
brought Stella to Redways.” 

“Has she no friends or relations?” 

“I believe she is the daughter of a clergyman who is 
dead,” she hesitatingly replied. “They were married from 
the home of a Mrs. Dester, with whom Stella lived. She 
is a distant relative, I understand. I do not think Stella 
has any other relations. She is very beautiful, don’t you 
think?” she added earnestly, as though that quality amply 
atoned for a lack of kin. 

“Her beauty has carried her far.” 

She believed she understood his resentment, which in¬ 
deed she shared. In the pause which followed it struck 
her, however, that there was something more than mere 
resentment in his attitude: something unreadable and mys¬ 
terious. It was as though Robert Lynngarth, the Robert 
Lynngarth she knew, who had kissed her hand and called 
her his Lady Fibbets, had disappeared, and been replaced 
by some unknown wanderer of strange lands—a being 
who inspired both fear and mistrust within her. In that 
aspect he filled her with misgivings; his eyes, sombre and 
motionless now with hidden thought, caused her to think 
of the cold unseeing stare of some great seabird on his 
far-off island. She shivered a little, like one suddenly 
cold. The day seemed to darken, and there was a scent 
of decaying fungi in the air. 

Robert roused himself suddenly and looked at his watch. 

“Twelve o’clock!” he announced. “The bird of Time 
still flutters, Lady Fibbets. Have you anywhere else to 
take me—anything to show me?” 

“Crikey is buried near here,” she murmured. 

From the tower she led the way to a spot close at 



102 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


hand—an open space in the wood near a coppice. Here 
her eyes sought something and found it: a mound and 
small wooden cross in the long grass. 

“He missed you so much when you went,” she said: 
“When he died two years after I thought you’d like 
him buried here, w r here he used to chase the rabbits. 
So I dug a grave, and put him in a little box. Then I 
cut the cross and wrote an inscription with an indelible 
pencil. I don’t know if you can read it still.” 

The sun shone in the clear space. He bent down and 
made out the words: 

In Memory of Crikey, who never forgot. 

“It was a stormy day with a high wind,” she went on. 
“I remember how sad I was when I’d covered the earth 
over his little box. I felt quite alone in the world.” 

In the silence of the w T oodland and the glancing light 
they stood side by side until Kathleen, lifting her head, 
uttered a slight exclamation. He questioned her with 
a look, and she pointed to the coppice in front of them. 
He could see nothing at first, then his eye caught some¬ 
thing white in the green, near the ground. His glance, 
traveling upward from that point, saw the face of a man 
staring from the leafy screen at his own. Their looks 
met. The next moment the branches parted, and the 
man emerged. He was a strange figure, tall and slight, 
with a bent leg encased from knee to heel in plaster of 
Paris, as if a broken shin were set within. He hopped 
forward on a crutch held beneath the right arm, and stood 
regarding them. 

“What are you doing here?” said Robert Lynngarth. 
“Don’t you know that this is a private park?” 


AFTER LONG YEARS 103 

“It’s my business to be here,” responded the other, 
gazing at his questioner with an intent dark eye. 

“He is one of the gamekeepers,” Kathleen whis- 

• 

“A strange one!” muttered her companion, his steady 
glance resting on the uncanny figure with its enlarged 
and stiffened limb. 

“Perhaps a better gamekeeper than many on two legs,” 
responded the cripple fiercely. 

“You do not belong to Hampshire, I fancy,” said 
Robert Lynngarth, still looking him over. 

The gamekeeper shook his head. 

“Nor England either?” 

“Can’t anyone but an Englishman be a gamekeeper?” 

“It depends on the man. What is your name?” 

“Wells.” 

“Wells?” 

“John Wells. That’s English enough, isn’t it? I’ve 
had it all my life, and I’m not going to change it. I was 
born into the world with the name of Wells, and I’ll take 
it into the grave with me. John Wells. It’s good enough 
for me, though I dare say some people would like some¬ 
thing more high-sounding, such as Fortescue, or Beres- 
ford, or Raymond.” 

“Raymond?’ 

“James Raymond.” 

“James Raymond.” The former bearer of that name 
repeated it impassively, as if trying the sound—uttered 
it with expressionless face. 

The gamekeeper, face resting on crutch arm, looked 
at him fixedly, with a dark and sombre stare. 

“Do you live on the estate?” said Robert finally. 

“In the gamekeeper’s cottage by the river.” 



104 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“Very well,” was the indifferent response. “If I want 
you at any time I shall know where to find you.” 

With a cold smile the gamekeeper turned away, spring¬ 
ing through the wood on his crutch until the trees hid 
him from view. Robert watched him as he disappeared. 

“A strange chap, that,” he said. 

“He reminds me of a great cat,” said Kathleen. 
“Though I shouldn’t say that. He was wounded in the 
war, which ought to make me feel kinder towards him. 
But I can never get used to seeing him springing about 
the woods like some strange animal.” 

Robert seemed sunk in thought. “How long has he 
been at Redways?” 

“He came here last summer, begging. Sir Roger took 
pity on him—made him a gamekeeper, and gave him the 
little cottage by the alder pool to live in. Sir Roger 
thinks he is quite useful, considering his infirmity.” 

“He is hardly the kind of gamekeeper I should choose,” 
was Robert Lynngarth’s only comment. “It is lunch¬ 
time, Lady Fibbets. We had better go back to the 
house.” 


CHAPTER X 


LADY MERCER REMEMBERS 

H ER heart went cut to him that day in the abbey 
tower, if, indeed, it had not been his all her life; 
but she did not know that till afterwards. She 
only knew that in the days that followed his return she 
was perplexed and unhappy. The memory of one morn¬ 
ing was hers, and no more. How was she to know that 
Robert Lynngarth, returning to life and his father’s 
home, had stepped into a coil of things which entangled 
James Raymond, living on a solitary island in that deso¬ 
late belt of water which sweeps unchecked around the 
southern rim of the world? Who would have thought 
that Chance could reach so far? But the fates are three¬ 
fold, while Love is one, and blind. 

Love, it seemed, was not for him, caught in the web 
of Chance—at least not that love which brings a man 
peace. He had left England under a cloud twelve years 
before; he had returned with it still enfolding him. Like 
a man risen from the dead, he walked apart, a figure of 
mystery and mistrust. He was not at ease in his new 
life; so much was apparent. He had been forgotten as 
his father’s son, believed to be dead. His belated reap¬ 
pearance on life’s stage was as startling as the uprising 
of an apparition—a thing to be whispered about and 
w’atched for. The rustics on his father’s estate turned 
aside when they met him, distrusting and fearing him as 
they did the gamekeeper with the maimed leg, who hopped 
through the woods like some ungainly bird. It was that 

man’s presence there, and the few words he had uttered 

105 



106 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


that day at the tower, which helped to keep Robert Lynn- 
garth aloof and uneasy, because he did not understand 
what the incident meant. But Kathleen did not know 
this, either. 

The week-end passed. The Horburys returned to Put¬ 
ney. Lady Mercer stayed on. Life ran smoothly in its 
ordered current at Redways, as if no long-absent son had 
come to life. Sir Roger spent his mornings with his 
secretary, his afternoons in supervising the work of the 
estate, as a conscientious English landlord should. A 
man nearing seventy has a due conception of the value 
of time: Sir Roger spent his hours like gold pieces, chang¬ 
ing them into sixty minutes which were husbanded to the 
last second. He did not need the quickened fall of leaves 
from the tall elms to remind him of the waning of the 
year. 

The ladies of the household passed their days after the 
manner of English ladies in the country. They talked, 
w’alked, and sometimes entertained visitors to tea, with 
a little tennis afterwards. Occasionally there would be a 
small dinner-party of half a dozen neighbours, where the 
guests discussed crops and the weather as if there was 
nothing else in life. Sir Roger talked politics to them, 
and Stella gave them a little music after dinner. For the 
rest, Stella kept to her garden, and Kathleen went for 
walks and rides alone. 

It was a life into which Robert Lynngarth did not fit, 
partly, it may be, through there being no place for him. 
Father and son met at meals, and exchanged a few com¬ 
monplaces—no more. Robert spent much of his spare 
time wandering about the woods and game-covers. 
Sometimes he fished in the alder pool. He was as prodi¬ 
gal of his days as his father was prudent—flinging away 
the golden hours like one who did not know how they 


LADY MERCER REMEMBERS 


107 


should be spent. There was something disturbing to 
Kathleen’s mind in this spectacle of a man so completely 
heedless of the value of time. She vaguely imagined 
there was something wrong about it—something wasteful 
in Robert Lynngarth spending his days doing nothing, 
though, apparently, there was nothing for him to do. 
She saw his tall figure lounging about at all hours. More 
than once she saw him coming from the maimed game¬ 
keeper’s cottage by the river-side, and wondered what 
took him there. It could not have been to gain any 
information about shooting or fishing, because the game- 
keeper was not there to give it. He was away in London 
wdth Sir Roger’s consent, making one of his periodical 
visits for the treatment of his maimed leg. 

There w r ere days when Kathleen went out walking 
with Robert, but they were not times of such enjoyment 
as the first morning of his return. The woods were 
beautiful in the quiet autumn stillness, the robins and 
thrushes sang sweetly, but Robert was changed. Not 
outwardly. He called her by the old pet name, his eye 
dwelt on her with the same regard, but she felt somehow 
that these things did not count for so much now; it was 
not the same. She had the idea that the first impulse 
of their meeting after twelve years’ absence had betrayed 
him into a warmth of feeling which he now regretted, 
and that his present friendliness was a pretence devised 
to spare her pain. He had erected a barrier around him¬ 
self, within which his soul dwelt in isolation and watch¬ 
ful secrecy. 

She guessed partly aright—in one respect at least. 
Robert, that being of impulse, had been replaced by James 
Raymond, the man who had learnt caution in the bitter 
school of experience. 

They did not visit the abbey tower again, nor did Kath- 


108 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


leen go there alone. It remained unheeded, a ruined and 
deserted landmark on the crest of the green rise, as much 
a part of the landscape as a tree. 

That he had some secret she felt sure, but she had no 
notion of what it was—not then. 

Sometimes Kathleen had the feeling that Robert and 
his father’s wife were attracted to each other in some 
intangible way. Kathleen was observant, and once or 
twice she had seen them talking together when they 
thought themselves unnoticed. She watched them sharply 
after that, but their demeanour in the presence of others 
was so correct and restrained that she concluded she was 
mistaken, and was, indeed, a little ashamed for thinking 
such a thing possible. A more experienced perception 
might not have been so easily lulled, but Kathleen’s mind 
was innocent of worldly guile. She did not guess then 
that they had known each other before, in a far-off land. 
That was something they discreetly veiled, an episode 
they had good reason to keep to themselves. 

The days wore on, the leaves fell faster, and the year 
was passing into a calm decline, when Kathleen found 
herself in the position of onlooker at that mysterious 
series of events which led up to the strange tragedy of 
which each incident was but a link in the complete chain. 

It actually began on the night of Sir Roger’s absence. 
An important letter from Downing Street, from a source 
which could not be gainsaid, had summoned him to Lon¬ 
don. A general election was in the air; the party whips 
were nervous—it was feared that this time a dissolution 
could not be averted. So Sir Roger went up, taking 
Stonnard with him. They were to return the following 
day. 

Lady Mercer and Kathleen sat alone in the drawing¬ 
room. Stella had gone to her room, and Robert had 


LADY MERCER REMEMBERS 


109 


disappeared after a rather silent dinner. Lady Mercer 
was reading, but Kathleen sat lost in thought. Lady 
Mercer laid aside her book and regarded her protegee 
for some minutes unobserved. Then she spoke: 

“What are you thinking of, Kathleen?” 

Kathleen flushed. She had been thinking of Robert 
and wondering where he was. Lady Mercer gave a 
shrewd shake of her head. 

“Don’t waste your time thinking of Robert, my dear. 
His is a broken life—never to be mended, I am afraid.” 

“It is terribly sad,” said Kathleen simply. “I cannot 
bear to think of it. Just imagine him after all these 
years coming home to see his mother and finding her-” 

Tears rushed to her dark eyes, but she turned her head 
away and kept them back with an effort. 

“Still, he has only himself to blame for that.” 

“I do not look it at in that light now that he has 
returned,” said Kathleen in a low voice. 

“My dear,” returned the old lady, “what would you 
have? We must take life as we find it, not play fast 
and loose with it, as Robert has done with his. He has 
a very strange temperament, though, indeed, I do not 
blame it for everything that has happened. You never 
heard how he came to leave England in the first instance, 
did you?” 

Kathleen shook her head. She had often thought about 
it, and never dared to ask. Now, it seemed, she was to 
know without asking. 

“I always thought his father was a little hard in the 
matter,” continued Lady Mercer, “though, of course, 
it’s difficult to say without knowing the facts. But I 
do know Roger, and I fancy he decided in his mind to 
play the Spartan father and make a sacrifice of his only 
son. That’s the worst of your highly moral men, my 



110 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


dear, they’re so dreadfully fond of making examples of 
other people. It’s a form of self-indulgence, really. 
Highly moral people let their morals run riot, just as 
some people let their passions run riot. It’s all a matter 
of temperament at bottom. 

“But about Robert. There was always some mystery 
and rumour as to what he did years ago which compelled 
him to leave England. As a young man he was wild and 
harum-scarum, but very handsome and charming. I was 
fond enough of him then, and so was his father. Indeed, 
it was impossible not to like Robert when he was a young 
man—some men, like most women, are at their best be¬ 
fore they are thirty. You were only a child then, and 
cannot remember his charm—quite different from the 
man who has returned, so gloomy-faced and serious at 
times that he might be a temperance reformer or one of 
those dreadful people who write articles on morals in the 
Sunday newspapers. Some of the old charm peeps out 
at times, but it’s not the same. 

“Well, as I said, I never knew why he left England. 
His mother never knew, either—Roger kept the truth 
from her. I suppose there was a woman at the bottom 
of it. There usually is when a young man gets into 
trouble. It must have gone deeper than that, though, or 
Robert would never have confided the truth to his father. 
My idea is that some offence against the law was at the 
back of it, and for that reason Robert was compelled to 
seek his father’s aid. 

“Robert came down from London to see his father. I 
remember it all so well. It was an autumn afternoon, 
with an east wind blowing and the leaves falling thick in 
the garden—one of those dull dreary days when one 
shivers over the fire and deplores the English climate. 
Robert’s mother and I were in the drawing-room. Robert 




LADY MERCER REMEMBERS 


111 


and his father were closeted in the Painted Room. We 
could hear the sound of their voices, subdued at first, 
then louder and angry. The door of the study was flung 
open, and we heard Roger say, ‘Now go; you have dis¬ 
graced the name of Lynngarth.’ I remember thinking 
at the time how absurd it was of Roger to go on in that 
way, like the heavy father in a melodrama, for all the 
servants to hear. Robert’s reply was peculiar. ‘I’m 
going,’ he said, ‘and I shall never return, or we both may 
regret it.’ His mother ran out to him at that, and I 
followed. I was just in time to see Robert bending over 
his mother, kissing her. ‘Good-bye, mother,’ was all he 
said. The next moment he was gone. 

“From the window I watched him striding down the 
path among the fallen leaves. As he reached the drive 
I saw him turn round, his white face staring at the house. 
Sometimes in my dreams I can see again that last look 
of his.” 

Kathleen seemed to see that picture too—the winding 
avenue with dropping leaves, and Robert Lynngarth 
peering through the leaves at the shuttered house. 

“Did Sir Roger never tell any one why Robert left 
England?” she asked at length. 

“No. He has always kept that to himself. He would 
not even tell his wife when she lay dying, but he did 
promise to forgive Robert if he ever came back, though 
I do not think that he has. I suppose when he made 
that promise he thought Robert would never return. 
Roger has always placed his tiresome moral standard 
above everything—before happiness or anything else. 
The honour of the Lynngarths! That’s his creed—his 
religion. We heard no more of Robert until he dropped 
from the skies in this unexpected fashion—which is very 
like him to do. I certainly thought he was dead. Only 


112 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


his mother clung to the belief that he was alive and would 
return some day. On her deathbed she asked me to give 
him her love, her dear love and blessings. She was right 
after all.” 

There was silence between them, then Lady Mercer 
spoke again, in a different tone. 

“Sometimes I think it would have been better if Rob¬ 
ert had remained away.” 

“Oh, no, do not say that,” said Kathleen in a pained 
voice. 

“My dear,” said the old lady kindly, “life is a flimsy 
thing at best, and twelve years is a big gap out of it. 
Robert remained silent to please himself, and he cannot 
come back and pick up the threads where he dropped 
them. He has changed terribly. He has been so long 
in the wild parts of the earth that he’s no longer a civ¬ 
ilized Englishman. He’s a wild man now—what the 
modern female novelist calls a primitive. I fear this res¬ 
urrection of him. I’ve strange feelings about him. I’ve 
the impression that he sneers at us all in his heart, and 
that all sorts of dreadful thoughts are surging behind 
those gloomy eyes of his. They remind me of a wild 
beast sometimes—a wild beast behind bars. I do hope 
he won’t attempt to break out and eat us all up alive.” 

She broke off with a laugh at the sight of Kathleen’s 
dismayed face, and added in a different tone: 

“I’m talking nonsense, my dear—just teasing you. 
Robert’s a dear fellow, and I love him dearly in spite of 
his faults, or perhaps because of them. He has a way 
with him where we are concerned, and so few modern 
men have a way -with women. They insist on treating 
us as rational beings, which of course we’re not—not one 
of us. Now, Robert idealizes us and regards a pretty 
face as one of God’s good gifts to the world. He’s like a 


LADY MERCER REMEMBERS 


113 


boy catching butterflies in a meadow. One butterfly is 
very like another.” 

Lady Mercer stopped and gave the girl one of her 
shrewd glances. But Kathleen was not looking at her. 

“He must have loved his mother very much to come 
back—after all,” said Kathleen. “It was wonderful that 
her letter should have reached him on the island in that 
way. It seems almost as though it was meant that he 
should come back.” 

“Providence should have interposed earlier, then. It 
was like Robert Lynngarth to interpret his mother’s 
letter as a sign to return. Perhaps it would have been 
better if he had not—better for himself and others.” 
Lady Mercer sighed. 

Silence fell upon them at that—a silence which was 
broken at length by the sound of an opening door. Stella 
entered the room, book in hand, and joined them where 
they were sitting at the far end of the drawing-room. 
She took a chair without speaking. She wasted few 
words where her own sex was concerned. Her golden 
head drooped over her book. Kathleen looked at her 
with a sort of wonder at her beauty. She was dazzling 
and seductive, perfect indeed, but with something mys¬ 
terious about her. Fragile, yet a creature of flame— 
what destiny had brought her across the threshold of 
Redways and made her its mistress? 

Lady Mercer, coming out of a deep reverie, looked up 
sharply. 

“What was that noise, Kathleen?” 

“I heard nothing, Lady Mercer.” 

“It sounded like a window rattling. I wonder where 
Robert is ? In the smoking-room, I suppose. The maids 

have got hold of some preposterous story about- Ah, 

here is some one coming; Robert, no doubt.” 




114 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


It was the figure of Robert Lynngarth which appeared 
in the doorway. Lady Mercer signalled him with a ges¬ 
ture. He approached with a smile, and sat down by 
her. 

“I was just talking of you, Robert, and wishing you’d 
come in. I feel nervous and out of sorts to-night, and 
I don’t like the idea of a parcel of women sitting alone 
in this great ghostly room. I wish you’d take a stroll 
round the garden and smoke a cigar there before you go 
to bed. One of the maids has a stupid story of a man 
watching the house last night.” 

Stella uttered a sudden exclamation. Lady Mercer 
looked at her kindly. 

“No need to get alarmed, my dear. I’ve not the least 
doubt that’s it’s all imagination, but of course the Lynn¬ 
garth silver is valuable and famous.” 

“True,” replied Robert. “Redways might easily be 
burgled. Did the maid see anything of this man? Could 
she recognize him?” 

“No. He was standing under the elms by the side 
of the house wearing some kind of a hood over his face— 
so she says. It sounds ridiculously improbable.” 

“Interesting, though. A hooded shape! That sug¬ 
gests the traditional Redways ghost, the old monk of the 
Abbey, dispossessed by our ancestors—the old chap who 
is to announce the final tragedy of the house.” 

“No, no; you’ve got it wrong,” said Kathleen reproach¬ 
fully. “He never visits Redways in human shape, Rob¬ 
ert—you ought to know that. It’s only an eye—an in¬ 
tensely malevolent eye which floats into your room and 
stares at you.” 

“True, I’d forgotten,” said Robert lightly. “But no 
one has ever seen the eye so far as I know. I fancy the 
ghost story originated with the other eye, the one over 





LADY MERCER REMEMBERS 


115 


the mantelpiece in the Painted Room, which used to ter¬ 
rify me when I was a child. I can well believe it would 
wander round the house, prying into all the rooms, if it 
could.” 

“We are talking a great deal of nonsense about ghosts,” 
said Lady Mercer good-humouredly. “Do be practical, 
Robert, for once. If you will go round the house before 
going to bed, I should certainly feel easier.” 

“Yes, I’ll do that,” said Robert. 

“No, no; do not.” The speaker was Stella. She 
looked from Lady Mercer to Robert with a dismayed 
face. “It would not be safe—you might be hurt. Oh, 
please, don’t.” 

She advanced tremblingly towards him, and the expres¬ 
sion upon her face was an unconscious revelation to eyes 
which could read it aright—the look of a woman who had 
forgotten all things except one. Robert glanced at her 
irresolutely. The gaze of Lady Mercer was bent upon 
them both. It was she who spoke. 

“I do not think Robert is putting himself into any 
danger, Stella,” she remarked coldly. 

Stella, looking up, caught Robert’s eyes fixed upon her 
warningly. That look recalled her to herself quicker than 
Lady Mercer’s words, which, perhaps, she had not heard. 
She got herself in hand at once, seemingly without an 
effort. Her arm dropped to her side, and the excitement 
died out of her face, leaving it listless and enigmatic as 
ever. 

“I am nervous and silly to-night,” she murmured, with 
a submissive glance in Lady Mercer’s direction. 

Robert did not look at her again. After a moment or 
two he arose from his seat and, with a vague gesture in 
the direction of the garden, left the room. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE NAILS OF FATE 

O UTSIDE the air was heavy with a brooding thun¬ 
der-storm, and the garden a mere outline of un¬ 
stirring shapes. Robert stood on the terrace 
until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom and then 
stepped down into the garden. His footsteps fell noise¬ 
lessly on the velvet lawn. 

He walked towards a group of elms at the side of the 
house, where a small gate led from the garden into the 
wood. When he reached it he paused to light a cigar, 
then rested his arms on the gate, looking around him. 

The peace of the night stretched undisturbed before 
him. The solitude and silence betrayed no hint of in¬ 
trusion. The trees appeared vaguely menacing in the 
obscurity, but their menace was not human, though the 
complete darkness of the woods might have been peopled 
with burglars lying in wait for the Lynngarth silver. 
Robert did not expect to see any one. The story told 
by Lady Mercer was not in his mind, which was fixed on 
other things. He remained motionless by the white gate, 
staring into the gloom. He moved slightly as he became 
aware of a gleam of light in the depth of the obscurity 
before him. It showed brighter, a faint flickering glow, 
twinkling from some house beyond the wood and near the 
river. Robert knew that it came from the lame game¬ 
keeper’s cottage. After a moment’s hesitation he opened 
the gate, and walked through the darkness of the woods 
towards the river. 


116 


THE NAILS OF FATE 


117 


He emerged by the river bank, and following the mur¬ 
muring stream to the alder pool, left the path and struck 
across the flats to the solitary cottage at the end of the 
lane. The light he had seen from the gate came from a 
small sitting-room, and through the uncurtained window 
Robert beheld the gamekeeper within, seated at the table, 
crutch beside him, engaged in skinning a small bird with 
a knife. The shaded light beside him fell on his dark, 
intent face, and the small bundle of feathers which his 
long fingers were manipulating. 

He was so engrossed in his taxidermy that a light tap 
on the pane passed unnoticed. Robert knocked again, 
and louder. The gamekeeper looked up quickly, and the 
eyes of the two men met through the window. The man 
within rose and hopped to the door and opened it. He 
looked at his visitor questioningly, but without surprise. 

“I want a few words with you,” said Robert. 

The gamekeeper jumped back, leaving the way free for 
his visitor to enter. Robert followed him into the small 
room with its rows of caged birds. A parrot in a wicker- 
cage uttered an exclamation almost human in tone and 
looked down menacingly from its perch. 

The gamekeeper put the lamp back on^the table and 
swung round on his crutch with a hissing breath, his eyes 
on Robert’s face. 

“Well?” he said. “What do you want?” 

“I have been trying to see you for some time past.” 

“I had to go to London—about this.” He touched 
his bent leg. “Sir Roger lets me go up and down to have 
it doctored. I came back by the evening train.” 

Robert appeared to hesitate. Then he said: 

“You have been abroad?” 

“Who told you that?” asked the gamekeeper 
quickly. 


118 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“Nobody. I guessed it. I thought so the first time 
I met you—that day at the old tower. You remember ?’ 5 

The other nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve 
roved the world a bit—knocked about till I got this.” 
He pulled down a woollen stocking he was wearing, and 
exposed a dangling lower limb encased in plaster of Paris, 
with a blue distorted foot protruding from it. The limb 
suggested deformity without any visible malformation. 
Its owner regarded it with a sort of savage disdain. 
“That put a stop to my galloping,” he said. 

“I suppose so. Where did you get it?” 

“At Gallipoli—in the war.” 

Robert looked at him with a new interest. 

“What took you to Gallipoli?” 

“Adventure, if you like, or because I Tvas a fool, like 
many others.” 

“And you brought away that crippled leg?” 

“Smashed with shrapnel,” he said, feeling it gingerly. 
“The doctors have been fooling about with me ever since, 
but they can’t get it right. Something w T rong with the 
bone. It’s been X-rayed and all that sort of thing. The 
chap who’s treating me now at a London hospital thinks 
he can cure me, though, so that’s something to look for¬ 
ward to. He says he’ll have it out of plaster of Paris 
in another three months.” 

He took down a chevalier pipe from the wall, filled it, 
and went on: 

“Time it was too. I brought it back from the war 
like that, and hopped through England till I came here, 
when Sir Roger put me on as a gamekeeper, and gave me 
this cottage to live in.” 

“How did Sir Roger come to engage a maimed man 
like you as gamekeeper,” asked Robert, with a keen 
glance. 


THE NAILS OF FATE 


119 


“Perhaps because he’s got more charity than a lot of 
so-called Christians,” answered the other, coolly enough. 
“I’ll not deny that the job’s made easy for me, but I 
can do my work all right. But that’s neither here nor 
there. I don’t suppose you came here to talk about 
my job.” 

“I did not. I came to ask you a question.” 

“Ask it, then.” 

“When I met you, the day after my return from abroad, 
you mentioned a name—the name of James Raymond.” 

“And if I did ?” 

“Did you know James Raymond?” 

“A man meets a good many people of all sorts travel¬ 
ling round the world.” 

“That may be, but it seems to me that you had some 
particular object in mentioning this name to me.” 

“I don’t see what it has to do with you, Mr. Lynn- 
garth.” 

“It has, as I fancy you know very well. I knew James 
Raymond.” 

“Where?” 

“At Gallipoli.” 

“You were there too?” 

“Yes. And James Raymond was killed there.” 

“What has this to do with me?” 

“Because I’d like you to tell me where you knew James 
Raymond, and why you mentioned his name to me that 
day.” 

“I never knew any James Raymond,” said the game- 
keeper sullenly. “If I mentioned that name to you, it 
was just a chance.” 

“That would be too much of a coincidence,” replied 
Robert. “You had better tell me, or I warn you-” 

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Lynngarth?” 




120 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“No; but I ask you to tell me the truth about James 
Raymond. What do you know of him, and what led you 
to mention his name?” 

“As God is my judge,” cried the other solemnly, “I 
don’t know what you mean. Raymond is a common 
enough name, Mr. Lynngarth, and, if I mentioned it, it' 
was by chance. This seems a great to-do about nothing, 
if I may say so. What’s the name of Raymond to you, 
when it brings you here to threaten a gamekeeper on 
your father’s estate. You’ll get nothing more out of me 
if you stay here all night, because there’s nothing more 
I can tell you.” 

“Very well, but if that’s your answer you force me to 
form certain conclusions of my own,” said Robert. 

“Think what you like, but I’ve spoken truth,” rejoined 
the other undauntedly. He remained poised on his 
crutch, motionless, his dark eyes fixed warily on his visitor. 
But his words and demeanour had been submissive enough, 
and Robert realized that he was too deep for him. Curs¬ 
ing himself for a fool, he turned short on his heel and left 
the cottage without another word. He heard the game- 
keeper hopping to fasten the door behind him, and as he 
turned to close the garden gate the man was back at the 
table, bending over his half-skinned bird again. 

Robert strode back to the house deep in thought, and 
went straight upstairs to his room. The hour was not 
late, but he wished to be alone, and to think. He was 
oppressed by a sense of peril, and when he did seek 
slumber his imagination was disturbed, and it was some 
time before he could sleep. 

When sleep did come he stirred uneasily in the grip 
of a vivid dream. He was aware of a high and lonely 
building by the side of a river—a great block divided into 
two parts, with an iron staircase descending like a cork- 


THE NAILS OF FATE 


121 


screw on one side into a courtyard at the foot, where a 
single gas-jet flared in the wind. Down this staircase 
a man was running madly, as if pursued by fear, occasion¬ 
ally glancing backwards over his shoulder, up into the 
darkness above. Half-way down the last flight he put 
his hand on the railing, vaulted over the stairs into the 
courtyard below, and disappeared like a flash into the 
darkness of the street outside. 

From this dream Robert Lynngarth awoke as if his 
eyelids had been plucked apart, and sat up in bed with 
head thrust forward, like a man still listening to the clat¬ 
ter of those receding footsteps down the wind-swept 
street. Sleeping or waking, that dream had enslaved his 
memory for the past twelve years. For the vision was a 
true one, and the man was himself. 

He lay there tossing in the darkness for some time, but 
sleep refused to come again. That dream had put it to 
flight, as it had so often before. At length he arose, and 
switching on the light sank into a chair by his bedside. 

Thoughts crowded upon him and besieged his weary 
brain. A host of questions arose to his mind—strange 
questions to which he could find no answer. To escape 
from them he took a volume at random from a shelf of 
bedside books, but he found it impossible to read. His 
mind reverted persistently to the perplexities by which 
he was beset. 

He saw himself once again assailed by mysterious 
dangers which he could neither ward off nor withstand. 
He brooded upon the past with the feeling that he was 
on the brink of a similar fateful moment to the one which 
had driven him out of England long before. He had 
returned after twelve years to be enmeshed in the same 
w r eb of Fate’s weaving—the fool of Chance, now, as then! 
A disturbing and awesome thing to contemplate, truly. 


122 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


The difference was that so far the law had been respected. 
If tragedy followed—and only the silent heavens knew 
■what the fates were plotting—the horrible coincidence 
would be complete. 

In the chain of circumstances which entangled him there 
was something so mysteriously premeditated, so delib¬ 
erately planned, that he shrank from the contemplation 
of it, as if a glimpse of the aw T ful mechanism of the uni¬ 
verse had been unveiled to his distracted gaze. But in 
this instance the tremendous machinery had been set in 
motion to crush a human creature not worth crushing. 
There was an absurd lack of proportion in such an act 
of Fate, yet how else was the sum of events to be inter¬ 
preted ? 

Could anything have been stranger than for him to 
return and meet Stella again as his father’s wife, and a 
Stella unchanged? Could no other man have been found 
for her in the w r hole wide world? Then there was that 
gamekeeper in the cottage by the river. Who was he, 
and what did he know? He had given himself aw r ay to 
no purpose there, and had extracted nothing of the man’s 
knowledge of James Raymond. His explanation of a 
chance utterance of that name w T as, of course, ridiculous, 
but for some reason the gamekeeper now wished to re¬ 
assure him and remove his suspicions. In that case, why 
had he mentioned the name to him at the tower on the 
morning after his return? These were questions to which 
he could find no answer, but he had the feeling that the 
man who said his name was John Wells was in some way 
part of the coil in which he was caught. What obscure 
purpose lay behind it all he could not guess, but there 
was a veiled malignity in it which filled him with a sense 
of horror. It was like walking in a jungle where hidden 
snakes lurked. 


THE NAILS OF FATE 


123 


What ought he to do? That was a question he had 
asked himself before, and the answer was plain. A secret 
voice within him warned him to be gone. “Go,” it cried 
insistently. “Go at once, before disaster comes.” Yet, 
knowing this, he hesitated. He had a reason ready; an 
excuse perhaps; the excuse of a weary heart which longs 
in spite of itself. 

Reason? What had he to do with such thoughts? 
It was his duty to go, and immediately. Each day added 
to the danger, not only for himself, but for Stella. 

He filled his pipe, lit it, and sat back gazing upwards. 
From the ceiling the throng of robed angels which gave 
his bedroom its name looked down upon him. Their soft 
painted eyes met his in divine pity. But there was one 
with outstretched arms, like an angel crucified. Hu¬ 
manity was crucified too, for that matter—nailed to the 
cross of life, but crucifixion twice in a lifetime was 
more than a grim joke. Human endurance was limited, 
and a man could only stand so much. When the nails 
were in, one endured it, but to tear open wounds after 
twelve years and drive fresh nails into the same raw 
holes . . . 

He took himself impatiently to task. What did it 
matter after all? There was an end to all things. We 
were born to suffer, all in our appointed ways—some in 
one way, and some in another. Apparently humanity 
came into this world for no other purpose than to be 
crucified by Fate. The ancients believed that too. What 
did Horace say? 

“Inexorable Doom before thee fares, 

Beam-rivets in her brazen hand she bears.” 

Beam-rivets—the nails of Fate: Yes, the metaphor 
was apt enough. Fate was like an immense unseen hand, 


124 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


for ever at work hammering the human race to its cross. 

The nails of Fate! Drowsily he allowed his imagina¬ 
tion to dwell on the theme. He seemed to picture giant 
hands clutching and nailing down. Thud, thud, thud! 
The sound of Fate’s hammer fell mechanically and per¬ 
petually through the mysterious universe of human suf¬ 
fering. And, thinking thus, sleep came to him swiftly 
and suddenly, overtaking him in the midst of his sombre 
thoughts. 

He awoke as suddenly as he had fallen asleep. In 
some bewilderment he sat up, casting his eyes about him. 
The light still burned, the angels looked down from the 
ceiling, and a clock on the mantelpiece proclaimed the 
lateness of the hour. In the stillness he thought he could 
hear a sound like distant hammering, and his last waking 
thought came back to him. He listened intently. Yes; 
there could be no doubt about it—somewhere in the dis¬ 
tance there was a faint thudding sound, as of an unseen 
Fate at w r ork. 

“Nonsense, I’m getting morbid, brooding over this 
thing,” he muttered to himself. 

He listened again, rather disquieted. For a moment 
he could hear nothing, and then it recommenced, coming 
from somewhere outside, though he could not determine 
where. The idea of Fate at work was replaced by one 
equally grotesque. The noise in some way reminded him 
of a distant episode in his wandering career—of a night 
when he had camped by a lonely lake in the Australian 
bush. He had been awakened by just such a sound, and 
had raised the flap of his tent in time to see the grey 
shape of a kangaroo flopping away into the bush. 

He smiled at the idea of a kangaroo leaping about in 
the quiet solitude of the Hampshire country-side, but the 
noise outside certainly reminded him of it. He could 


THE NAILS OF FATE 


125 


hear the odd, methodical flop distinctly. It seemed to 
be coming nearer, from the park into the garden. As he 
listened another explanation came to him to account for 
the noise, and that was the story Lady Mercer had told 
him of the man seen by the maid from the window. A 
man with his face hidden, according to the maid’s account. 
Did hooded shapes progress in this manner? It was 
probably a thief after the silver. 

Noiselessly he approached the window, and looked out. 
At that instant the sound ceased. He looked out into 
the night. The thunderclouds had cleared away, and in 
the clearer air he could make out the outline of the garden 
and the indistinct shape of the bronze girl struggling with 
her dolphin. But he could see nothing like a human 
form. 

He stood at the window watching, and then fell into 
another reverie. Time passed as he stood there, but the 
silence remained unbroken. Finally, with a sigh, he came 
to himself, and turned away. As he crossed the room 
to switch off the light he saw something which had not 
been there before: a white square patch clearly revealed 
against the dark green background of the carpet. It 
was an envelope, which must have been thrust under 
the door while he was at the window. He stooped and 
picked it up. It was a closed envelope without super¬ 
scription, and the back bore the Lynngarth crest. Even 
before he opened it and saw the handwriting on the half¬ 
sheet within he knew that this secret epistle was from his 
father’s wife. 


CHAPTER XII 


A MEETING IN THE CHURCHYARD 

I N the churchyard encircled with yews Robert Lvnn- 
garth waited. The clock in the church tower struck 
three, and his watch confirmed the hour. How like 
Stella to select such a meeting-place and then not come! 

He retraced his steps slowly between the old head¬ 
stones and more pretentious memorials, but stopped when 
he reached the spot where his mother was buried. 

She w r as the first to lie in the new family vault. The 
son for whom she had waited so long and vainly stood 
by it now, his mind filled with thoughts of her, wondering 
if she were lonely and afraid in that damp, cold place. 
What did the living know of the thoughts of the dead? 
Perhaps they started up in the dark, crying out piteously 
in fear, with none to heed or care. . . . Ah, the living 
were frail and helpless, but the dead more helpless still. 

Her name and age were cut deep at the top of a square 
granite column. Then came a blank space for those who 
would follow in the course of time. His own name would 
not be there. He and she would be divided in death, as 
in life. His eyes, darkening at that thought, dwelt som¬ 
brely upon the inscription at the foot of the column: 

“O death, where is thy sting? 

O grave, where is thy victory?” 

The victory and the sting? Alas, they were there— 
both. Not for the dead—no. The barb was in the 
quivering flesh, the victory over the living. 



A MEETING IN THE CHURCHYARD 127 


He turned to leave the churchyard, but saw his father’s 
second wife entering the gate. Across the grassy mounds 
she made her way towards him. His lips tightened at 
the idea of a meeting in that spot, and he moved a little 
farther away. No scruple of that kind was in her mind, 
and her face lit up with eagerness as she drew near. 
She stepped over a forgotten grave to his side. 

“You received my note?” she asked. 

“Would I be here otherwise?” he answered her. 

“I had to see you, Jim,” she murmured. 

“What good can come of it?” he said in reply. 

“I have had no chance—no real chance—to speak to 
you since your return,” she went on. “Jim, why do you 
avoid me?” 

“Is not that best, for all our sakes?” he rejoined a 
little wearily. “It was folly on your part to meet me 
here. Don’t you know that the churchyard is overlooked 
from the house?” He pointed to the upper windows of 
Redways, which gleamed down at them from a distance. 

“I do not care for that,” she recklessly retorted, “so 
long as I can see you and speak to you. I cannot go on 
like this. I shall do something desperate, I think.” 

“You are doing that at the present moment by meeting 
and talking with me here in this way.” 

“There’s no one to see or overhear me, Jim, except 
that robin on a tombstone with a worm in his mouth, 
and he won’t tell any one.” 

She smiled up into his face, and he smiled faintly in 
reply. 

“You are rather childish, Stella, for Lady Lynngarth.” 

“Don’t!” she interrupted sharply. “Jim, I want to 
talk to you-” 

He looked around him apprehensively. “We cannot 
talk here.” 





128 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“But I must. There is no chance in the house. Some 
one seems to be always near us, and I am afraid of Lady 
Mercer.” 

“We had better go into the church, then,” he said. 
“Not that it is particularly safe, either, but at least 
we shall not be overlooked there from the house.” He 
moved towards the church as he spoke. 

She gave him a bitter glance. “You seem very 
nervous.” 

“For myself—no,” was his response. “But there is 
your reputation to be considered.” 

“My reputation?” She echoed the word with a strange 
laugh. 

“Your reputation is the reputation of the Lynngarths 
—now,” he reminded her simply, opening the church door 
for her to enter. 

“I care nothing for that!” she retorted defiantly. 
“Not when I am with you.” 

The ponderous door closed heavily behind them and 
they were alone in the old grey church where so many 
Lynngarths slept, indifferent to the disconcerting activity 
of existence. Stella looked into Robert Lynngarths grave 
face triumphantly, and eagerly cried: 

“At last, Jim, I have you to myself. Your ancestors 
won’t mind!” 

Her clear sweet voice came ringing back from the grey 
walls. Then, drawing back a little and making him a 
mock curtsy, she began to dance, easily and slowly at 
first, then quicker, gyrating swiftly and beautifully, with 
all the lightness and grace of a professional dancer. The 
old church had probably never witnessed a stranger sight. 
Faster and faster she went, her breath coming quickly, 
her colour heightening. Her feet made no sound on the 
flagged pavement. Robert Lynngarth watched her in 


A MEETING IN THE CHURCHYARD 129 


silence. With a final pirouette she came to a standstill 
upon a worn stone which covered a long-dead Lynngarth, 
and danced towards Robert, on her toes, her face thrown 
back, her little hands held together in front of her face. 

“Does that remind you of Dawnia, Jim—of the first 
night you saw me?” she asked. 

“You are dreadfully imprudent,” was his rejoinder. 

“No one here knows that I can dance—except you. 
I felt just now that I had to dance—or to go mad. Jim, 
I hate my life here.” 

“You should try and forget the past—try and be 
happy.” 

“Happy?” She echoed the word rather drearily. 
“What is there here to make me happy?” She looked 
round the church and through a darkened window at the 
old, grey garden of the dead. He followed her look. 

“Not in the churchyard certainly. Content is the lot 
of those who lie there—not happiness. But your life has 
much in it, Stella.” 

“Not now that you are back.” 

He considered this, and sighed. “I seem doomed to 
upset somebody’s happiness wherever I go. That can 
easily be remedied this time. I will go away again.” 

“Oh, no, no! Do not leave me, Jim. Promise me that 
you won’t.” 

The clock above their heads struck four, and the sound 
of the four strokes clanged solemnly through the empty 
stillness of the church. 

“Four o’clock!” said Robert Lynngarth in dismay. 
“Stella, if this is all you have to say to me, we had better 
go. It would not do for us to be seen here.” 

He turned, as he spoke, towards the door of the church, 
and opened it. She came after him quickly, and laid her 
hand upon his arm. 




130 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“Jim,” she said. 

He looked round at her. She was glancing at him 
with one of her rare smiles—a smile few men could resist, 
Robert Lynngarth least of all. “I haven’t said all I want 
to say to you—yet,” she told him. 

He hesitated. Her wistful beauty and starry eyes 
moved him deeply at that moment. She was his father’s 
wife, but she was also a woman. As he hesitated whether 
to go or stay, the inherent weakness of his temperament 
where women were concerned rose to overthrow him. 
There was a recklessness in her whole attitude which 
appealed to him strongly, because it chimed in with his 
own outlook on life; and like calls to like. His weak¬ 
ness where women were concerned sprang not so much 
from sexual feeling as from a realization of their utter 
fragility and defencelessness in the face of the basic facts 
of existence—like butterflies floating gaily in sunshine 
indifferent to the menace of the coming storm. He be¬ 
lieved that men had a better sense of the tremendous in¬ 
security of things. Moreover, they had no painted wings 
to lose. He had a profound pity for the more fragile 
sex, all under sentence of death, despite their pretty airs 
and graces. He looked at Stella seriously, and stopped 
—in spite of himself. 

“Well?” he asked, as she did not immediately speak. 

“Jim-” 

She broke off abruptly, and the moment of silence which 
ensued was one fully charged with importance to both of 
them. He waited patiently for her to pick up the thread 
of her words. She went on with drooped eyes, her colour 
coming and going, as if in fear. 

“Jim, Marist knows. He is in England.” 

Robert started, and released his hold of the door, which 
swung slightly open. 




A MEETING IN THE CHURCHYARD 131 


“Do you really mean that?” His eyes were grave. 

Still she could not summon courage to look at him, but 
nodded slowly. 

“And have you seen him?” 

Again, her reply was a nod. 

“Has he been molesting you?” 

“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, Jim, I am afraid—afraid. 
What am I to do?” She looked up now—looked up im¬ 
ploringly—and came closer. There was a lengthy pause. 

“You had better tell my father the truth—or some of 
it,” said Robert sombrely. 

“I dare not,” she whispered back. 

“I said some of it,” he rejoined. “It is the best thing 
to do. My father loves you. He will forgive you. Then 
you will be safe.” 

“But, Jim, Marist knows—about you.” 

He recoiled a step, looking at her strangely. 

“That cannot be,” he said. “I never saw him.” 

“You forget.” She spoke gently, but her eyes were 
wide. “You never saw his face, because he wore that 
animal skin, but he saw you, sitting in the front seat on 
that night, looking at me. And afterwards he found out 
that I went away with you.” 

“Even so, what difference does that make?” 

“Because he also knows that you are back—and here.” 

He was puzzled, and showed his wonderment. 

“But he does not know that James Raymond is Robert 
Lynngarth. He could not.” 

“You forget that he has seen you, although you haven’t 
seen him,” she reminded him with a frightened look. 
“And he knows that you are here.” 

“He cannot know that unless he is here.” He spoke 
coldly, his eyes probing her. Then recollection, like a 
flash, brought swift suspicion to him, and he believed he 


132 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


saw the whole incredible truth. “Where is he—Marist?” 
he asked. 

Courage fled before his eyes. She tried to think. 

“In London.” 

“Then you had better give me his address and let me 
go up and deal with him.” 

“No, no, Jim! I dare not do that. It would be of no 
use, and would only make it worse for me. I am afraid 
of him.” 

He eyed her keenly, sternly. 

“Stella, you are not telling me the truth. He is not 
in London—he is here.” 

“No, Jim,” she replied hurriedly, “he is in London. 
He writes from there, and I send him money to a post 
office address. He could not come down here—it would 
not be safe.” She twisted her hands nervously, still 
shrinking from his look. “Oh, Jim, you must believe me. 
I am telling you the truth. Do you believe me?” 

“Yes, I believe you,” he answered. 

He did not. His experience of her sex led him to think 
that a man was a fool who expected a woman to tell him 
the whole truth about herself. That, however, was a 
small thing compared to the catastrophe which threatened 
them both. For himself he did not care. His chief con¬ 
cern was for her. Fate had indeed played a cat-and- 
mouse game with her. He could see the shadow of the 
lifted paw, ready to strike her down. Tenderness stirred 
within him. How could she be saved? 

“If you could bring yourself to tell the truth to your 
husband,” he said earnestly. “That would be best in 
the long run. After all-” 

“No, no!” Her voice rang out passionately. “I could 
not. Do not ask me.” 




A MEETING IN THE CHURCHYARD 133 

Silence fell between them again. The door of the 
church swung unregarded in the wind. 

“It is your fault.” She turned on him stormily. 
“Why did you send me away from you? Why did you 
send me back to England?” 

“I wish now that I had never returned to England 
myself.” 

“Ah, no, no! Do not say that! Think of me. Even 
to see you like this, to know that you are near me, is 
something. It helps me—a little—to bear the other 
thing. Jim, you will not leave me?” 

He wanted to tell her that it was the best thing to 
do, the best for both, that, indeed, he had stayed in Eng¬ 
land too long already. But he stood there irresolute 
at the sight of her piteous and pleading face, angry with 
himself, but not with her. He had at least the merit 
of tenderness where her sex was concerned—the tender¬ 
ness of an impulsive temperament, which is at times akin 
to brutality. 

She knew him, and read him aright. She came closer 
to him, her face uplifted, looking in the darkened light 
of the old church like some rare piece of carved ivory— 
like a supplicating Virgin. Then she swiftly kissed him 
on the lips, and clung to him, sobbing. 

A slight crunching on the gravel outside startled them. 
Stella fell back, shame flaming in her cheeks, eyes bright 
and wide. 

“There is some one there,” she whispered. 

Robert nodded without speaking. Too late he blamed 
himself for forgetting that partly open door. In silence 
they stood listening. Then they heard the sound again, 
and footsteps went past the church door. 

The sound of the steps died away, and Robert, looking 
forth, saw a figure making for the churchyard gate. It 




134 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


was his father. He reached the gate and passed through 
without a backward glance. 

Robert returned to Stella, standing a few paces from 
the door. 

“Did you see who it was?” she asked, a little breath¬ 
lessly. 

“Yes,” he said. “It was your husband—my father.” 

Colour mounted in her cheeks again, but this time with 
fear. 

“Do you think he heard—or saw us?” she whispered. 

“How can I say?” he replied simply. 

How could he say, in truth? A man’s back may be 
eloquent in silence, but it does not reveal its owner’s 
thoughts. Sir Roger’s back, seen vanishing in the dis¬ 
tance, had been strictly non-committal, hanging out no 
signals to the eyes watching it from the porch. Robert, 
knowing nothing whatever of that back’s yea or nay, yet 
believed the worst, because it was his temperament to do 
so. But it was equally part of his temperament to re¬ 
assure the anxious woman at his side with a smiling un¬ 
truth—an untruth so far as his own opinion was con¬ 
cerned. 

“I do not think so,” he said. 

Her face cleared up immediately, like a child who has 
been needlessly frightened. 

“No, I do not think so, either,” she replied. “He 
would have come in, wouldn’t he ?” 

“I think you had better go home, Stella,” he said. 

She timidly assented. “Yes, I suppose so.” 

“You had better go through the far gate, by the fir 
plantation,” he counselled her. “Then you are not likely 
to meet.” She turned away submissively, but shrank back 
in alarm at the sight of Sir Roger retracing his steps to¬ 
wards the door of the church. 


CHAPTER XIII 


AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 


H IS glance dwelt coldly on his son, ignoring the 
presence of his wife. Her frightened eyes were 
set on his face, but she could read nothing there. 
Robert remained like a figure carved in stone, waiting for 
his father to speak. The folly of commencing an ex¬ 
planation was manifest to him, at least. Sir Roger broke 
the silence. 

“I overheard, unwittingly, a fragment of your con¬ 
versation while passing the church a few minutes ago,” 
he said, in a measured colourless voice, addressing himself 
entirely to his son. “I thought at first to defer explana¬ 
tions until you returned to the house, but on second 
thoughts it will be wiser to speak to you here.” 

“Very well, father.” 

There was something about this formal acceptance of 
an equivocal situation which terrified the girl who was 
watching both men. Her feminine instinct prompted her 
to try and save appearances—to give a conventional 
aspect to a situation beyond redemption. 

“Roger! Roger!” she cried. “You are making a mis¬ 
take. There was nothing—wrong. I was telling him— 
telling Robert—that I felt a little lonely at times—in 
England. He is your son—he has travelled—he is 

sympathetic—and understanding-” 

“His sympathy was apparent to me—as I came in,” 
her husband gravely assured her. “You had better leave 
us, Stella.” 


135 




136 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


His passionless acceptance of whatever he had over¬ 
heard struck more fear into her heart than any outburst 
of mere anger would have done. She did not understand 
that his birth and breeding forbade such elementary form 
of relief: that he could no more have raved at her than 
struck her. The long process of making a gentleman 
generally ensures dignity and restraint in moments of 
stress. It was strange, too, that the same process curbed 
the more tempestuous disposition of Robert Lynngarth, 
so father and son met on the same plane. It was a height 
too lofty for Stella’s comprehension. She was cast 
in more emotional—more undisciplined—mould. She 
glanced at their impassive faces distractedly. 

“Tell him—Robert—tell him there was nothing. Oh, 
how can you stand still without saying a word?” 

In her terror and bewilderment she was incapable of 
perceiving that her own frantic attitude was more sug¬ 
gestive of guilt than the coldly distracted air of the man 
she addressed. That, at least, had the merit of being 
non-committal. But she had a more powerful ally than 
he could command. Her beauty did not fail her at that 
moment. She looked a creature of distracting loveliness 
in her abandon and fear; in her despair at this appalling 
menace to the security of her existence. The spectacle 
of her appealing loveliness had its effect on both men. 
The implacable lines of her husband’s face softened a 
little as he looked at her. 

“I shall not condemn you unheard, Stella”—his voice 
was unconsciously milder—“nor will I judge you harshly. 
There will be time enough to appeal to me when I do. 
But you had better leave us now. I wish to speak to 
Robert.” 

He held the door open for her in a manner not to be 
gainsaid. Slowly, and with hesitating steps, she passed 


137 


AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 

out. At the last moment she cast a glance at Robert 
Lynngarth over her shoulder—a look which her husband 
was unable to see. That wide-eyed glance conveyed an 
appeal—an unspoken prayer to him to save her from the 
folly of her own act. He read it aright, and nodded reas¬ 
suringly in reply. Then the door closed on her, and Sir 
Roger returned to where his son was standing. 

“Now that we are alone, I shall be glad if you will 
give me the opportunity to explain,” said Robert, speak¬ 
ing earnestly and rapidly. 

“I need no explanation,” was the cold response. “Suf¬ 
ficient for me to know that you are unchanged.” 

“All the more reason for you to hear me, then, for 
your wife’s sake. Believe me, I have no wish to justify 
myself. That would be impossible—in your eyes. As 
you have just said, I am unchanged. For me, nothing 
matters, nor can I be held accountable for a temperament 
which came with me into the world. Your wife is differ¬ 
ent. She is in a false position where I am concerned.” 

“In what respect?” His father’s tone was of the driest. 

“I happen to know, to have learnt”—Robert picked 
his words carefully—“something concerning an episode 
in her life before she reached England. A small thing, 
really, which hardly concerns you or affects your happi¬ 
ness. But, because I do know this, my presence at Red- 
ways is awkward, and a source of embarrassment to your 
wife. Perhaps it would have been better to have in¬ 
formed you of this in the first instance—when I came 
back.” 

“Perhaps it would.” Irony tinged Sir Roger’s voice. 
“Why tell me now?” 

“I must, but Lady Lynngarth did not wish you to know 
before. She thought you would be angered. This after¬ 
noon I was endeavouring to persuade her that it would 



138 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


be better for her to inform you. It was a portion of 
that conversation which you overheard.” He looked at 
his father to see the effect of these words, but Sir Roger’s 
face was inscrutable. 

“You met by appointment—here?” he said sharply, 
glancing round him. 

“Not here—in the churchyard,” rejoined his son. “We 
walked into the church to discuss the matter.” 

Sir Roger looked at him attentively. “Your story 
means that you have met my wife—abroad?” 

Robert bowed his head. 

“That accounts for the questions you asked me when 
you saw her picture in my room. Why did you not tell 
me then—on the day of your arrival—that you had met 
before?” 

“I could not—not without her consent. There were 
circumstances known to me alone; a confidence she had 
entrusted to me.” 

Sir Roger looked at his son as if he would pierce the 
secret of his heart. Robert bore the look steadily. His 
father spoke again. 

“I will not go so far as to say that I disbelieve you 
utterly in this. I have not that right, because I do not 
know. But I know you, and for that reason I’m com¬ 
pelled to mistrust you. Strange how mystery and un¬ 
happiness dog your footsteps wherever you go! I have not 
forgotten—nor have you—why you had to leave England. 
After staying away twelve years, you return to plunge 
me again in fresh perplexity and suspicion—suspicion of 
you. You should have revealed this matter to me, what¬ 
ever it is. That was your plain duty, and I cannot 
understand your attitude of secrecy. Let us leave my 
wife out of it. You accept full responsibility, and have 
declared yourself solely to blame. From my past experi- 




AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 139 

ence I need, unhappily, very little assurance on that point. 
I shall endeavour—though not for your sake—to banish 
any deeper and, perhaps, unworthy suspicions which came 
into my mind as I heard you talking. But if I do that 
I must insist upon one thing, which your own common 
sense should tell you is the best course you can pursue, 
for all our sakes. You must leave Redways immediately.” 

Robert nodded. “Yes; I was going to suggest that 
myself. Perhaps you will recall that I wished to leave 
Redways as soon as I returned and learnt that Mother 
was dead.” 

“As I said at the time, that course, by provoking gos¬ 
sip, w T ould have been indiscreet. The reason exists no 
longer. You’ve now been back long enough to permit 
of your departure without setting all the local tongues 
wagging. There’ll be talk undoubtedly, but not to the 
same extent as if you had rushed off again on the very 
night that you returned. At least you have stayed long 
enough to give your visit the colour of—a filial duty. 
It only remains for us to hit upon some excuse which 
will sound like a plausible reason for your leaving England 
again.” 

“It could be given out that I have gone to develop my 
gold-mine in New Guinea.” 

“Your gold-mine? Oh, that after-dinner talk!” Sir 
Roger considered this. “Yes; that would do. Perhaps 
it might be possible to place an Imperial construction on 
the idea, if you will actually develop the mine.” 

“I will take any one there, if it is your wish. A small 
party would be best, if you want to develop the field.”’ 

“Make a small expedition, an Imperial expedition, of 
it? That would be a very good plan. Your interests 
as the discover would be preserved. We could make you 
the largest shareholder.” 


140 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“I do not want shares,” his son answered indifferently. 
“I’m better without money. I shall return to my island. 
I’m out of harm’s way there with the birds.” 

“Very well. That is your own business. You had 
better stay away from England.” 

“That is my intention.” 

“Then this will probably be our last interview, so you 
had better know my plans concerning you. I will settle 
an adequate allowance upon you, to be paid quarterly 
through my bankers, to any address you care to name. 
Wait!” He checked his son’s passionate refusal with a 
gesture. “The sum will be there whether you choose to 
avail yourself of it or not. After my death Redways 
comes to you, but very little money. The place is en¬ 
tailed, but the bulk of my fortune is at my own disposal.” 

“I do not care for your money,” said his son. “My 
only regret is for Redways. Of course I can never oc¬ 
cupy it—as you know. It is a pity we can’t break the 
entail.” 

“That is impossible.” 

They stood in silence for a moment before Robert spoke 
again. 

“I am sorry that this has happened. I wish, for your 
sake, father, that it had not. I regret that I ever came 
back.” 

“Perhaps you do—now.” Sir Roger’s face was ada¬ 
mant. “ ‘Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also 
reap.’ I shall not shrink from the additional burden 
which your folly—to call it by no worse name—has laid 
upon my shoulders. Now, let us discuss the business de¬ 
tails of this New Guinea expedition. Will a thousand 
pounds be sufficient to finance it? I will pay the prelim¬ 
inary expenses of course—steamer fares, outfit, and that 
sort of thing. If the sum I mention is sufficient, it shall 




AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 141 

be handed to you as you are leaving England. You had 
better go to London to-morrow to make preparations 
for your impending journey. There will be no need for 
you to return to Redways. That course will obviate 
any—any awkwardness after what has happened this 
afternoon. See Baron when you reach London, and he 
will advance the money necessary for your own outfit.” 

His son stopped him there. “There is no need to treat 
me like a pauper. I have some money of my own—cer¬ 
tainly enough to take me out of England.” 

“I am treating you as my son.” Sir Roger spoke 
coldly. “For all concerned it is better that this matter 
should be so arranged. At least it gives a semblance of 
business to your departure. That, I think, is all. Now r 
if you will accompany me back to the house, I will have 
the necessary letters sent off at once.” 

Father and son left the church together and turned 
homeward. There was no further talk between them. 
Sir Roger walked a little apart, his head bent forward,, 
and his hands clasped behind him. His son viewed the 
scene through which they were passing as one looks upon 
a familiar sight for the last time. The old house, the 
spacious garden, the green fields and the murmuring river: 
he took them all in with earnest eyes, as if seeking to en¬ 
grave them upon his memory for the remainder of his life. 

When they reached the house, Sir Roger went towards 
his study after telling the servant who admitted them to 
inform his secretary that he wanted him. Stonnard 
came promptly. 

“I want two letters to go by the evening post, Ston¬ 
nard.” The master of the house, having got thus far, 
hesitated, while the secretary waited alert and upright. 
“Write to Baron, and tell him that my son will call on 
him to-morrow, and that he is to advance him two hundred! 


142 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


pounds.” Again Sir Roger paused, then went on quickly: 
“My son is leaving England again, Stonnard.” 

The secretary’s eyebrows showed polite interest. “In¬ 
deed?” 

“Yes. He is going at—er—my wish, to acquire im¬ 
portant mining interests in one of our new colonies. It 
is an Imperial matter of some importance, and expedition 
is desirable. He will have to take the steamer leaving 
England next week.” 

“The Poowoomba , round the Cape,” put in his son 
coolly. 

“Ah—quite so.” Sir Roger did not venture to pro¬ 
nounce the outlandish name with which his son had so 
glibly supplied him. “There are certain formalities— 
business formalities—which we have just been discussing. 
The second letter is to Prothero and Dickson, about a 
letter of credit.” Sir Roger dictated it, and added: 
“You had better tell Baron that I should be glad if he 
would come down to Redways next week and see me.” 

The secretary nodded, made a rapid note, and glanced 
from father to son. Then he broke the silence by asking 
if that was all. 

“Yes; and you’ll be sure the letters go by the evening 
post, Stonnard?” 

“I quite understand.” Stonnard was about to turn 
away, but Sir Roger spoke again. 

“This is not a confidential matter, Stonnard,” he said, 
looking into space. “I mention this in case there are 
questions—inquiries—about Mr. Lynngarth’s departure. 
We are engaged upon an enterprise in which it is essential 
to act speedily, and therefore my son will leave Red- 
ways to-morrow.” 

“So soon?” There was a touch of curiosity in Ston- 
nard’s voice. 


143 


AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 

“Next week’s boat is best. The one after might be too 
late.” The smooth falsehood was in Robert’s voice. 
“That doesn’t give me much time to prepare for a jour¬ 
ney to the other end of the world, you know.” 

Stonnard looked interested. “Is it that mine you 
spoke of?” 

“Yes; we are going to develop it.” 

“Well, that’s all right. I think you’re wise too. 
You’re a lucky beggar, and I should like to go out with 
you myself.” His tone belied his words and, with a smile, 
he left the room to write the two letters. Sir Roger 
glanced at his son. 

“I presume that you will take the morning train up?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then I shall not see you when you go.” Sir Roger 
spoke slowly. “This will be the last time we shall meet 
alone, for I have some important letters to write after 
dinner.” 

“In a word, this is our final good-bye,” said his son. 

“Yes.” Sir Roger appeared to be considering some¬ 
thing, then lifted his head sharply, like a man who has 
made up his mind. “I have not yet said all that I have 
to say to you, Robert.” His face went suddenly white. 
“Sit down, but first close that door and lock it.” 

Robert wonderingly complied, then returned to his 
chair and waited for his father to speak. 

“I saw Stella kiss you this afternoon,” was Sir Roger’s 
abrupt commencement, and anguish stared out of his 
eyes. 


CHAPTER XIV 


TO-MORROW ? 

T HERE were no angry voices upon this occasion, as 
there had been twelve years before. The Painted 
Room remained silent as a vault. Then, when the 
door opened, Robert Lynngarth came forth alone with a 
sad and thoughtful face. An hour had passed, and 
preparations for dinner were astir. He walked slowly 
through an empty hall, and went upstairs to dress. 

In an embrasured window on the first floor his eye fell 
upon the figure of Kathleen. She was standing with her 
back towards him, looking out upon the garden. He 
hesitated in passing her, and presently turned back. 
Longing was in his look: a longing which swallowed up 
his bitterness, and caused him to dwell on the soft lines 
of her youth and charm with a kind of sad tenderness. 
Approaching a step nearer, he uttered her name. 

She turned quickly, and smiled as she saw him. “I 
dressed for dinner early. Sir Roger hates any one to 
be late.” 

His hesitation was but momentary. He had to tell 
her, and he could not hope for a better opportunity. 

“I have something to tell you, Lady Fibbets. I am 
going away.” 

The smile faded from her face, and the colour too. 
“Going away!” She breathed rather than echoed the 
words. “Oh, Robert, where?” 

“Back to my obscurity—to my home,” he answered 

with a faint smile. “Back to my island.” 

144 


TO-MORROW? 


145 


A feeling of desolation gripped her and left her numb. 
She searched his face, but found no consolation there. 

“Why—why are you going ?” she managed to say. 

“It would be more difficult to say why I came back,” 
he rejoined, endeavouring to speak lightly. “That was 
the mistake. Believe me, it is all for the best.” 

Her heart protested passionately at this platitude, but 
her lips said nothing. 

“I go to London by the early train to-morrow, to see 
about an outfit. I shall sail next week.” 

She was startled from her apathy now, and raised 
pained eyes to his. 

“To-morrow! But you will return again—before—• 
before-” 

He filled in her hesitation. “Before I go? No. I 
leave Redways to-morrow—for good.” 

She missed the faint mocking accent on the last word. 
“Shan’t I see you again, then, after to-night?” she asked 
a little tremulously. 

“Oh, yes, I hope so.” His note of cheerfulness was 
too obviously forced. “There is still to-morrow, Lady 
Fibbets. There is always to-morrow.” 

To-morrow! Poor consolation to speak to young 
hearts of to-morrow. What consolation was that to a 
heart weighed down by the thought of many to-morrows 
to be spent alone? 

She tried to speak calmly. “Why are you going sud¬ 
denly, like this ?” 

She managed the question quite steadily, her clear eyes 
on his face. Again, he did not reply directly. 

“I can only say again that it’s more a question of why 
I ever came back.” He looked away from her now. 
“As I was supposed to be dead, it would have been better 
if I had remained so. We cannot retrace our steps with 



146 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


impunity in this world. I do not fit into things here. 
You yourself must see that. I’m the family skeleton, 
Kathleen, exposed to the gaze of the curious.” 

“That is not the reason why you are going away,” she 
said, with a flash of English common sense. 

“It has a great deal to do with it, I assure you,” was 
his reply. “Believe me, I have been thinking deeply for 
some days past. Can’t you see that there is no place for 
me here? I’m like a zebra in an English field—a strange 
beast stared and snorted at by the other animals. I’m 
worse than useless in such a setting, so I’m going back.” 

“I do not see that you were much more useful on your 
island.” She spoke these words with a touch of petu¬ 
lance which she instantly regretted. 

He met this with a strange smile. “I’m of no use any¬ 
where, not the slightest. But I’m going to try and do 
■something useful—as the w r orld reckons usefulness—be¬ 
fore I go back to my island. I’m to be a hardy pioneer 
of Empire first—imagine it! There’s a mine in New 
Guinea to be exploited, and I’m to lead an expedition to 
the spot, at my father’s request. We shall take out min¬ 
ing rights, develop the field, and all that sort of thing, in 
the name of Britain and freedom.” 

“I should have thought that Sir Roger had enough 
money of his own already,” she said scornfully. 

“Few men ever admit they have enough of that com¬ 
modity,” he said. “This expedition is no mere vulgar 
exploitation for wealth—do not imagine so. There’s a 
patriotic side to the venture. The idea is to conserve 
the mineral resources of the Empire. Just think w r hat it 
would mean if some w r retched foreigner w T as to stumble 
across my mine!” 

She w r as piqued more by his light tone than his pre¬ 
tended cynicism. Moreover, some instinct warned her 


TO-MORROW? 


147 


that he was not telling her everything. She guessed at 
once that this proposed expedition, which sounded to 
her ears like some legendary adventure of the days of the 
Conquistadores, covered a deeper reason for his sudden 
departure—a reason which he carefully guarded, and did 
not intend to divulge to her. That thought hurt and 
chilled her, and held her silent. 

He seemed to read her thought, and spoke in a different 
voice: 

“Do not think of me as a money-grubber, Lady Fibbets. 
I want nothing, except to forget.” 

“Forget what?” She spoke quickly. 

“Forget that I ever returned to life.” 

“There are others who cannot forget so readily,” she 
reminded him in a low tone, though that was an answer 
which might have betrayed her. 

His bitterness dropped from him, and his eyes pleaded 
for understanding. 

“Lady Fibbets, Lady Fibbets—believe me, it is better 
so.” He checked himself sharply, and went on rather 
lamely. “I shall see you in the morning, before I go.” 

“Yes; there is always to-morrow.” She could not re¬ 
sist the opening to give him back his own words as a 
gibe. She was like a wounded creature, in the mood to 
hurt him, as he had hurt her. Ah, why, after all, had 
he come back, only to make her unhappy before vanishing 
again like some perturbed spirit or uneasy wraith? He 
was like no other man that ever lived—in his contempt 
for life, for its observances and its conventions. There 
was something in this latest move of his which discon¬ 
certed her exceedingly, like a mocking laugh. Yet his 
eyes were gentle enough now, as he looked at her. 

“Yes; there is always to-morrow, Lady Fibbets.” 

He caught one of her listless hands in his, and walked 


148 ISLAND OF DESTINY 

quickly away, leaving her looking after him, with heaving 
breast. 

The memory of their talk remained with her, then and 
afterward—after dinner, in her room, where she went to 
think it all over. That interview was beyond her com¬ 
prehension: his attitude puzzled her. Why could he not 
stay in England and be happy, or try to be happy? Was 
he one doomed to be driven all over the world by the force 
of his own restless spirit, urged hither and thither by some 
force which he could not control, by a wandering dis¬ 
position which counted as nothing such dear English 
words as home, happiness and love? It seemed so, yet 
W’hy? She had the feeling that his smiling indifferent 
eyes concealed a state of mind perilously akin to despair, 
but she could not pierce the reason. All his actions 
■were wrapped in a haze of reticence and mystery. 

He was going away. That fact emerged plainly 
enough: here was reality. 

Her eyes fell upon the gilt lettering of a small book he 
had given her years ago; a volume of verse she had 
cherished through his long absence. She opened it now, 
and read the inscription in faded ink: “To Lady Fib- 
bets, with Robert’s love.” 

It was Edward Fitzgerald’s translation of Omar 
Khayyam—hardly a suitable present for a girl of nine, 
but that was also like Robert Lynngarth. She turned 
the pages listlessly. Like many sweet and lovable Eng¬ 
lish girls, Kathleen had small taste in poetry, and the 
old Tentmaker’s philosophy of barren longing expressed 
a futility which seemed almost wucked to her clear prac¬ 
tical sense. But that night it appealed to some hitherto 
unsuspected side of her temperament. She read on until 
she reached the verse: 


TO-MORROW? 


149 


“Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears 
To-day of past Regrets, and future Fears. 

To -morrow? Why, To-morrow I may be 
Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years.” 

She pushed the book away from her. Robert was go¬ 
ing to-morrow, and then he, too, would belong to the past 
as far as she was concerned. She felt she would never see 
him again. 

She could not bear that thought. It filled her with 
sorrow. 

From her window her eyes rested on the garden, peace¬ 
ful in the ebbing twilight. It seemed to beckon to her 
to share its tranquillity. She left her room and went 
down. 

It was cool and pleasant there. She walked until the 
last gleam of daylight faded and night descended like 
the gentle fall of a black curtain. Darkness took pos¬ 
session of the woods and garden, and light gleamed from 
the closed windows of the house. Kathleen’s unrest was 
succeeded by a feeling of peace. 

A sound broke the scented stillness of the garden like 
some unseen bird singing in the dusk. The notes 
floated through the night in liquid cadence, sweet and 
piercing. It was easy to imagine some strange foreign 
songster of glittering plumage pouring out melody from 
the thickness of the ivy where homelier English birds were 
now twittering themselves to sleep, if the notes had not 
shaped themselves into words of the Italian tongue. 
Kathleen knew that the music was coming from nothing 
more romantic than the new gramophone, a perfect in¬ 
strument of its kind, which had been sent down from 
London for Stella. The glorious voice reached her ears 


150 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


without any suggestion of the means which made the dead 
tenor sing again. The words came to her clearly: 

“La donna e mobile, 

Qual pluma al vento, 

Muta d’accento 
E di pensiero . . .” 

She went over to the window to hear the music better. 
The interior of the room was on a level with the front 
terrace, and Kathleen, standing on the lawn, could see 
into the interior above her as the curtains of the partly- 
open windows swayed gently in the night air. Stella and 
Robert were alone in the room, standing by the gramo¬ 
phone, talking earnestly. 

The air from Rigoletto covered their conversation, 
which was evidently of absorbing interest to both. Kath¬ 
leen gathered that from their intent and serious faces. 
She made no stir, but stood there, watching them. Stella 
was close to Robert, looking into his face, and speaking 
in a quick low voice. Kathleen was fascinated by her 
uplifted gaze, which was subtle, baffling, yet intensely 
feminine. The expression of her golden-brown eyes, as 
they rested upon her companion, vaguely troubled the 
unsuspected beholder of it on the lawn outside. Robert 
was not looking at Stella. His eyes were fixed upon the 
carpet at his feet. 

Stella seemed to be urging something upon him to w T hich 
he was reluctant to agree; so Kathleen judged from his 
attitude, which appeared to her grave and a little embar¬ 
rassed. Kathleen w T as aware that she ought not to be 
standing there looking in at them, but she could not tear 
herself away. She found herself wondering what the 
conversation was about. What had they to talk over at 


TO-MORROW? 


151 


such length, these two? As she thought this she saw 
Stella move closer to Robert and impulsively take his 
hand within her own. 

Kathleen fell back a little, startled and shocked, but 
her eyes remained fixed upon the two unconscious figures 
within the drawing-room. At that moment the sound 
of the gramophone suddenly ceased, and two words from 
Stella’s lips reached her out on the lawn. 

“To-night, then.” 

“You are mad to think of it,” Robert answered. 

“To-night. I am reckless.” 

“You are very foolish.” 

“To-night.” 

“It is madness on your part.” 

“I don’t care. I tell you—-” 

“Hush!” Kathleen saw Robert give an apprehensive 
glance round him. “You may be overheard.” 

“I don’t care for anything now that you are going 
away.” 

Passion ran like an undercurrent in her subdued tones. 
Then her sweet voice abruptly ceased, and she moved a 
little away from him, but still kept her eyes upon his 
face. 



CHAPTER XV 


IN THE NIGHT 

K ATHLEEN shrank back into the shadow of the 
garden, motionless, petrified. She stood passive 
in an imperturbable calm of despair, watching 
them. Stella still faced Robert with eyes in which blazed 
unfathomable things. Kathleen saw her touch his hand 
again with eager fingers, and press a note into it. His 
own fingers closed quickly over the morsel of paper, but 
his guarded face gave no indication of his thoughts. 

The familiar objects of the room stood in their places 
unmoved; the portraits on the wall witnessed this piece 
of folly in discreet silence. 

Some one entered the room—Lady Mercer. Kathleen 
heard her silk skirts rustle as she bore down upon those 
two in the corner; caught the pitch of her sharp voice. 
“A gramophone? A monstrous invention—enough to 
make all the Lynngarths turn in their graves if they 
could see it at Redways! Grinds out the same tune over 
and over again, like your modern statesmen. Rut we 
have to endure such things nowadays, whether we like 
them or not.” And Stella’s cold rejoinder: “Shall I 
stop it?” followed by Lady Mercer’s reply: “Not on my 
account. Put on that record I heard from my room. 
Caruso, wasn’t it? Ah, his was a real voice. I heard 
him at Covent Garden before the Americans bought his 
soul with their dollars. ‘La donna e mobile,’ wasn’t it? 
So they are—all women. Fickle as cats.” 

Kathleen could see their faces clearly enough. Stella’s, 

152 



IN THE NIGHT 


153 


cold, beautiful, composed, bending over the cabinet of 
records; Lady Mercer looking on; Robert standing a 
little apart. 

Kathleen made her way back through the garden and 
upstairs to her room, a feeling of unutterable weariness 
weighing down her limbs as she mounted the stairs. 
When she reached the haven of her room she locked the 
door behind her, though she did not know why. No one 
was likely to disturb her there. She was alone with her 
thoughts. 

Instinctively she switched on the light, but shrank 
appalled as she caught a glimpse of her features in the 
mirror. Her face was white, and there was something 
lurking in the depths of her eyes which she had never seen 
before: a wild look which returned her own as if some 
secret separate consciousness mocked at her discovery 
and rejoiced at the shattering of her inmost dreams. 
This secret look from her inner self shocked and frightened 
her. She turned away quickly and switched off the light 
again. 

She stood in the darkness, thinking. The scent of the 
late summer night reached her through the open window: 
the faint sweetness of meadows and hayfields, spiced with 
the richer perfume of clove pinks and roses in the old 
garden. The wind murmured in the woods, and the river 
sang its quiet song to the reeds. It was her first experi¬ 
ence of nature’s indifference to the miseries and passions 
which vex humanity. There was something in the pro¬ 
found and scented stillness which jarred and hurt her. 

Her mind pondered over the episode in the drawing¬ 
room, and its meaning. They had met before, these two; 
met somewhere in the mysterious wild spaces of the world 
where Robert had spent twelve long years. Why had 
they kept this to themselves when they met again, to 


154 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


whisper and exchange notes when they were alone? The 
knowledge of their secret oppressed her, but it was 
Robert’s treachery to herself which hurt her most. She 
told herself it was her first glimpse of the manner in 
which her sex were deceived by men. Deceived? Girls 
were self-deceived. Why she—even she . . . 

In the darkness she flushed scarlet at her safely hidden 
thought. With a sudden change of mood, she switched 
on the light again. 

It blazed on her pale face, her tumbled hair, and 
heavy eyes. The mirror reflected a slight girlish figure* 
dark hair falling on neck, trembling lips, and a wistful, 
frightened gaze. She herself was not conscious of any¬ 
thing immature or childlike in her reflection. She felt 
old, immeasurably old, with the knowledge of human 
things. 

She sat quite still, thinking. 

Time ebbed rapidly, imperceptibly. Her usual hour 
for retiring came and passed, but she was not aware of it. 
Familiar sounds of the household preparing for bed 
floated up, but she did not heed them. A little later 
footsteps paused in the corridor outside her door, and 
a light knock aroused her. She heard Lady Mercer’s 
voice. 

“Are you in bed, Kathleen?” 

“Yes,” she replied, and was thankful that the door 
was locked. 

“Then good night, dear. Have a good night’s rest.” 

A good night, with one word burning in her brain? 
She felt she should never know another good night; 
as if that single word of Stella’s, with its implications, 
had banished sleep from her eyes for ever. 

“To-night . . .” 

A small object on her dressing-table attracted her 



IN THE NIGHT 


155 


wandering glance. It was the velvet-bound volume of 
Omar which Robert had given her so many years before. 
It lay open at the page where she had been reading: 

“To-morrow? Why, To-morrow I may be 
Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years.” 

She shut the little book sharply. No more—she could 
not read his gift now. Misery and anger filled her heart. 
To-morrow? What, indeed, had she to do with to¬ 
morrow? There might be to-morrows for Stella, a future 
w’hen she would meet Robert again, touch his hand, whis¬ 
per secret things to him. But for herself- 

“Kathleen . . . Lady Fibbets . . .” 

She started as at the sound of a real voice, looking 
round her in the empty stillness of the room. Then she 
buried her face in her hands as if to shut out a vision, 
and tears flowed fast through her fingers. 

There was a sound of shutting doors downstairs, then 
silence and a creak or two, as if the old house was stretch¬ 
ing itself before sinking into slumber for the night. Kath¬ 
leen glanced at the watch on her wrist. Eleven o’clock 1 
It was time she put out the light. 

She turned it off, but did not undress. Hands clasped, 
she sat on in the darkness, immersed in her sad thoughts. 

Another hour passed, and the clock in the hall down¬ 
stairs proclaimed the time of midnight. Timepieces in 
different rooms took up the count. Kathleen had no 
idea there were so many clocks in the house. In the 
profound stillness they seemed to go on striking twelve 
over and over again. They died away at last. No— 
not all. One clock upstairs seemed to have waited for 
silence in order to have the last word. Twelve silver 
chimes from it rang shivering through the darkness of 
the corridor outside—quite close at hand. How was it 





156 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


that the faint mellifluous notes reached her ears so 
clearly? Had some one opened a door in the corridor, 
letting out the sound? That thought brought her noise¬ 
lessly to her feet and silently to her own door. She 
opened it gently—an inch or so—and peered cautiously 
through the chink. Her ear was caught by a slight 
creak. 

Something was coming along the corridor: a dim shape 
without a light. It passed her door swiftly and lightly 
as a ghost. It was no ghost, but a creature of flesh 
and blood: a woman. Kathleen knew who it was. 

Her eyes followed the figure, and lost it in the gloom. 
She opened her door a little wider, searching the black¬ 
ness of the passage. As she gazed a tongue of light 
darted out in the depth of the opposite corridor. A 
door had been opened: the door of Robert Lynngarth’s 
room. Then darkness again. 

As she stood thus she saw light again, but this time 
in the darkness below. It filled the hall, flickered on the 
polished staircase, and cast uneasy shapes on the ceiling 
of the corridor. The electric light had been turned on 
downstairs. Her eyes sought the great shadowy staircase 
in suspense and fear. A figure was mounting it slowly. 
Each step brought it higher until the face came into 
view. It was Sir Roger Lynngarth, fully dressed, as she 
had last seen him at the dinner-table. 

Breathlessly she watched his black-garbed figure as¬ 
cending the gleaming stairs. He paused several times, 
as though weary. His face was white and tense, like 
a man suffering or in mental disquietude. Leisurely he 
made his deliberate way upwards until he reached the 
landing on the first floor. He paused again to turn 
on the cluster of lights held aloft there, and went into 
the long corridor on his right hand. 


IN THE NIGHT 


157 


The house preserved the decorous silence of age, in¬ 
different to all things. Kathleen felt that the walls should 
have cried aloud and warned him. Her own terrified lips 
unconsciously framed the single word “Stop!” She 
strove to utter it, but no sound issued from her mouth. 
Sir Roger reached his son’s door, and knocked. Kath¬ 
leen could see the raised hand with a ring upon the little 
finger. She shook a little in her own concealment, as at 
the spectacle of a hand knocking at a burial vault, seeking 
to pry into things best left covered and unknown. 

Terror seized her then—terror swift and unreasoning. 
In a panic she shut her door sharply, heedless whether 
she was heard or not. With a wildly beating heart she 
flung herself downward on her bed, pressing her face on 
the pillow in an effort to shut out the memory of the 
scene. 


CHAPTER XVI 


A VEILED DISAPPEARANCE 

S HE awoke from a long dreamless sleep, and sat up, 
looking around her at the familiar objects of her 
room. The sun had already topped the tall elms 
outside her window, and she stared at the play of the 
slanting beams on the carpet, drowsily, wonderingly, like 
a kitten blinking at the light. Then suddenly it all came 
back to her—those overnight events which had brought 
her w r orld of dreams crashing in ruins never to be rebuilt. 
Never again. The girl of yesterday was dead, and all 
she believed in had died with her. Everything! There 
was nothing left. 

She sat still, her little wistful face propped on a slender 
hand, thinking it all out. Her dark hair hung loosely 
about her face, and she pushed it back with the weary 
gesture of a young creature numbed by the first shatter¬ 
ing revelation of the strangeness of the human heart. 
“If . . .” Her lips wistfully uttered the words, placing 
that pathetically human offering at the feet of the un¬ 
known gods. “If there is only some other explanation.” 
She could find none. 

At last she sprang up, dismayed at the lateness of the 
hour, dreading the ordeal which awaited her downstairs. 
She would have to sit through the morning meal as if she 
knew nothing, suspected nothing. 

A knock at the door interrupted her. “May I come 
in, Kathleen?” said a familiar voice, and without waiting 
for permission the handle was turned and Lady Mercer 
walked in. 


158 


A VEILED DISAPPEARANCE 159 

The girl turned and faced her. Instinctively she 
realized that this visit had some special significance. 
Something of importance must have happened to draw 
Lady Mercer from her room at the breakfast hour. Had 
Sir Roger told her anything? She dismissed the thought. 
That would not have brought Lady Mercer to her room 
before breakfast. Lady Mercer had old-fashioned ideas 
of what young girls ought to know. 

Lady Mercer closed the door carefully behind her, and 
came to her side with a grave and anxious look. 

“Kathleen, dear,” she said, “something strange hap¬ 
pened in the house last night.” 

Kathleen gave her a startled glance, but did not speak. 

Lady Mercer hesitated, then laid a hand upon her 
arm. 

ou must be told,” she said. “The fewer words the 
better. Sir Roger cannot be found. He is missing.” 

“Oh!” cried Kathleen. 

“Ashdown made the discovery this morning when he 
went to call him,” Lady Mercer continued. “He had 
told Ashdown the night before that he was sleeping in the 
oak bedroom downstairs, as he occasionally does, but 
Ashdown found the room empty this morning, and it 
did not appear to have been occupied. Ashdown rushed 
upstairs to Stella’s room, but she had not seen him. 
Mr. Stonnard sent my maid to tell me, and there’s been 
a hurried and fruitless search of the house. It’s a most 
extraordinary thing, and I’m very perplexed and alarmed. 
Roger went to the Painted Room after dinner last night 
to write some letters. Jauncey took him coffee there, 
and he’s not been seen since. Stonnard suggests he may 
have been called away by telephone, but if Roger had 
been summoned away on some tiresome political business 
he would have, at least, let the household know. He’s 


160 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


the last man in the world to do anything eccentric. He 
seems to have simply vanished, without anyone seeing him 
go. That’s why I’ve come to you, Kathleen. You retired 
very early last night. Were you out of your room after¬ 
wards, and did you see anything of Sir Roger?” 

“No.” 

The denial, clear and distinct, was forced from Kath¬ 
leen’s lips by some volition other than her own—by some 
secret instinct she dared not try to fathom. It was as 
though she merely obeyed some power within her, stronger 
than herself, which dictated her answer and left her to 
take whatever consequences might befall. 

Lady Mercer looked disappointed. 

“You saw nothing of Sir Roger—of anyone—after you 
came upstairs?” 

“No; I didn’t.” 

Again she was conscious that the reply was not hers, 
but was framed on her lips, with the calm assurance of 
deliberate thought, by the same compelling force which 
had led her to utter the previous untruth. But this 
time the veil was drawn: she knew what controlled her. 
Love had spoken within her, and love cares nothing for 
truth. She knew that nothing counted for her now 
except to shield Robert from the consequence of his own 
acts, whatever they might be. He was unworthy, but 
love cared nothing for unworthiness, either. Love was 
sacrifice—sacrifice of one’s self. For him! There could 
never be anything between them, but she would always 
love him. The years would pass, and her misery with 
it, but the memory of her effort to save him would re¬ 
main. She was glad that the courage had been given 
to her. . . . She looked at Lady Mercer with luminous 
eyes, their soft light full of the glory of love, the splen¬ 
dour of sacrifice, the illusion of youth. 




A VEILED DISAPPEARANCE 


161 


But Lady Mercer was old, and did not see these things. 

“Then there is nobody else to ask,” she said. “I 

thought perhaps-” She did not say what she thought, 

but went on in different strain: “One or two disturbing 
things have happened in this house during the last few 
days. I have my eyes yet. However, I didn’t come 
here to talk to you about that, my dear. I do hope 
that nothing has happened to poor Roger. Perhaps 
I’m alarming myself unnecessarily. We must keep up 
our courage and hope for the best. Come, dear, let us 
go down to breakfast. People must eat, though the 
heavens fall. Afterwards-” 

They went downstairs together. Kathleen knew not 
to w T hat, but she felt better able to support the coming 
ordeal in the company of Lady Mercer, whose own dom¬ 
inant personality needed little support from the carved 
balustrade of nymphs and satyrs on which her white 
beringed hand rested so lightly. There was no wood¬ 
land brake where Kathleen could flee for shelter, and so 
she shrank closer to Lady Mercer. The grim and beaked 
great lady patted her hand gently, as though she under¬ 
stood. 

The morning meal was served in a small panelled apart¬ 
ment off the great hall—“an unspoiled interior” the miss¬ 
ing owner of Redways was wont to describe it, meaning 
by that an early Tudor interior unmarred by later efforts 
of restoration. It was a dark and gloomy room, but 
the panels were in perfect preservation, and the beams 
wonderfully carved. 

Here Robert and Stella awaited them. Mr. Stonnard 
w r as there also. 

Kathleen’s first quick glance at Lady Lynngarth told 
her nothing, if indeed she had expected to learn anything 
in that quarter. Stella’s beautiful face was sorrowful and 




162 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


anxious. Her bewilderment at the strange event seemed 
real enough. Her admirable demeanour might have in¬ 
spired an ambitious young painter with Academy yearn¬ 
ings for a “Picture of a Sorrowful Lady” or something 
of that sort. Her loveliness was undimmed, and the little 
sunshine able to penetrate into the “unspoiled interior” 
seemed to be glimmering in her fair hair. There was 
no trace in her of last night’s clandestine figure, nor 
any symptom of fear or shame. In her grief she looked 
sincere. She had qualities—Kathleen admitted it—moral 
courage at least. But it was easy for her, Kathleen 
thought indignantly, because she believed that her secret 
was quite safe. She little guessed that she could have 
put her composure to flight with a single word. 

Robert’s behaviour was not so admirable. The mascu¬ 
line mask of concealment was more clumsily adjusted. It 
was plain to Kathleen that he was uneasy as well as deeply 
moved. His face was worn, and slight movements of his 
hands suggested mental tension. As Kathleen entered he 
looked at her with a quick scrutiny w r hich caused her 
to veil her own eyes for fear he might read something 
there. But she felt that he still watched her. 

The greetings were brief, and then Lady Mercer sum¬ 
moned the butler. 

“Jauncey!” she said. 

The trusted functionary was at the post of duty. A 
tremendous upheaval had swept into his calm orbit, but 
he met it unmoved. A butler cannot afford the luxury 
of emotion with a morning meal on his hands. He was 
also full of household cares. At that moment his eye 
dwelt absently upon a new maid in attendance: a bright¬ 
eyed slip of a girl with a weak mouth, whom Jauncey 
suspected of flightiness. And two of his spoons were 
missing in last night’s count—the small crested teaspoons, 


A VEILED DISAPPEARANCE 


163 


priceless, irreplaceable. Such things required an undivided 
attention from the guardian of servants’ morals and 
family plate. For these reasons Jauncey’s manner 
showed a trace of preoccupation in his reply. 

“Yes, madam?” 

“We will search the house again before breakfast.” 

The butler bowed, and went to the door and opened it. 
The house had already been searched from top to bottom, 
but it was not for him to remind the great lady of that 
—and, indeed, she knew it already. So he held the door 
open until Lady Mercer and the young people passed 
through, and then followed with noiseless step in their 
wake. 

“The Painted Room first, Jauncey,” said Lady Mercer, 
as they stood in a group in the hall. 

Jauncey bowed again, and this time preceded the little 
party down the corridor off the hall, a high passage where 
dead-and-gone Lynngarths looked down on the procession 
from massive gilt frames. In this manner they proceeded 
to the Painted Room. Jauncey laid a hand on the door 
to open it, but recoiled with a frightened face. 

“It is locked,” he cried. 

“Then you’d better bring the key,” said Lady Mer¬ 
cer. 

“The key’s inside the door,” returned the butler, 
shrinking back. 

Stonnard stepped forward and tried the handle. 
“Locked, sure enough,” he said. “What’s the meaning 
of this? It was open this morning—you remember, 
Lynngarth?” Robert nodded, and the secretary turned 
sharply upon the butler. “You must have locked this 
door yourself after Mr. Lynngarth and I searched the 
room.” 

“No, sir,” said the butler, “I did not.” 


164 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“Some one has,” persisted Stonnard. “Come, try and 
think.” 

“It wasn’t me,” cried the butler. “I thought of doing 
so, then I knew that if Sir Roger returned he would 
not like to find the door of his study locked without his 
permission. So I let it be.” 

“Then one of the servants has locked up the room,” 
said Lady Mercer. “Doors of empty rooms don’t lock 
themselves.” 

“With all deference to your ladyship, they would not 
dare. Not without my permission.” The functionary 
was merged into the man, and a very pale and nervous 
one at that. 

“If you say that, we must break in,” said Stonnard. 
He bent down, then straightened himself. “Jauncey is 
right. The key is inside the door. At least, I cannot 
see through the keyhole.” 

“Then the door was locked by no mortal hand,” cried 
Jauncey, with ashen face. “God help us, terrible things 
are happening in this house. What are we to do ?” 

At this unexpected outcry Stella’s nerves gave way. 
She uttered a startled exclamation, and swayed a little. 
Robert looked at her for a moment, and then turned to 
Stonnard. 

“There’s no need to break down the door,” he said in 
an undertone. “The Painted Room looks out on the 
lawn. We can get in through the window.” 

The young man nodded. “I never thought of that,” 
he said. “We will go, shall we—you and I?” 

But Robert was already down the corridor, and the 
secretary followed in the wake of his tall figure, leaving 
the three ladies grouped tremulously around the door, 
and the white-faced butler in the background. 

Outside a touch of autumn chill was in the air. The 


A VEILED DISAPPEARANCE 


165 


wind sighed with a dreary foretaste of winter, stirring 
the sere leaves which lay thick in the old garden. In 
silence the two men traversed the paths until they reached 
the lawn outside the Painted Room. One half of the long 
narrow French window was unfastened, flapping to and 
fro in the wind. The sound caused Stonnard to look 
quickly up and point out the open window to his com¬ 
panion. 

“Was the window unfastened when we were in the room 

* 

this morning?” he asked. 

“I don’t remember,” the other rejoined. He moved 
across the lawn and flung the window wide. “I see noth¬ 
ing,” he said. 

He stepped through, and Stonnard after. The empty 
room was as they had seen it earlier, in neatness and 
order. There was the open bureau, papers showing, and 
a drawer pulled out; a bowl of flowers and a book or 
two on the table, chairs sedately in place: a quiet writing- 
room, with the morning light falling softly on Stella’s 
picture in its silver frame, and glinting the gloomy land¬ 
scape above the mantelpiece, where the Eye looked down 
disapprovingly. But there was no trace of Sir Roger 
Lynngarth, alive or dead. Stonnard fancied that the 
order of the papers on the bureau had been disturbed 
since he saw them before, but he could not be sure. 

“Nothing here,” said Robert, looking around him. 

“The bedroom,” murmured his companion, uncon¬ 
sciously lowering his voice. 

The door of the inner room was closed, but not shut. 
Robert crossed the Painted Room and thrust it open. 
A glance showed it was empty, and the bed undisturbed. 
This room was also as they had seen it before, but Robert 
thoroughly examined it. Stonnard watched him from 
the open door. When further search was useless, they 


166 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


returned to the other room. Robert nodded in the direc¬ 
tion of the outer door. 

“The key’s in the door,” he said. 

Stonnard looked at it. “Jauncey was right. There 
has been some one here, but we’ve come too late. What 
does it mean?” 

Robert shrugged his shoulders rather wearily, as if he 
disdained answer to such profitless speculation. Ston¬ 
nard looked about him. 

“There’s something terribly wrong, I fear,” he sighed. 
“What do you think has happened, Lynngarth?” 

“Who can say—or even guess?” was the quiet reply. 

Stonnard nodded seriously, still looking around. 

“If this room could tell us!” he said. “I wish now 
that I’d disregarded his wishes, and looked in on my 
way upstairs. I saw his light beneath the door, as I’ve 
often seen it.” 

“It was out this morning, his man says.” 

They looked at each other in silence. There was fear 
in Stonnard’s eyes. The look Robert gave him back 
showed sadness. 

“Now that we have searched, we had better open the 
door,” he said. “The others will be anxious.” 

He crossed the carpet in a stride and turned the key. 
The opened door showed four faces which sought his own 
anxiously. He answered that mute interrogation with a 
shake of the head, and the three ladies came into the 
room. 

“You have found nothing?” asked Lady Mercer. 

“Nothing, except that key inside the door,” he re¬ 
turned. 

“Then some one has been here,” she declared positively. 
“Who was it?” 

“Perhaps Sir Roger,” said Stonnard, reassuringly. 


A VEILED DISAPPEARANCE 


167 


Lady Mercer shook her head. “No,” she said de¬ 
cisively; “Sir Roger would not act so. Why should he?” 
Her eye caught Robert’s, and she turned on him impetu¬ 
ously. “What do you make of it, Robert—this locked 
door?” 

“I do not think it matters much, at present,” he re¬ 
joined. 

“The thing’s to find your father first, you mean? Yes, 
but what’s to be done? Roger was here last night, and 
now he has gone—disappeared without a sign! Where 
can he be?” 

“He must be somewhere,” Stonnard remarked. 

“Yes, yes!” Kathleen’s fresh young voice caught at 
this vague hope. “He must be somewhere, as Mr. Ston¬ 
nard says.” Then the strangeness of the mystery of the 
two empty rooms came home to her more fully, and with 
a nervous glance at their emptiness she added: “But 
where?” 

“That we must find out,” said Lady Mercer. “Pray 
Heaven there is nothing amiss.” 

“Ah, do not say that!” These words came in a whis¬ 
per from Stella’s white lips. She looked at Lady Mercer 
with dilated eyes. 

Robert cast a perturbed glance at her which Kathleen 
saw. 

“You are upset, Stella”—Lady Mercer looked at her 
gently—“you had better come away. And you too, Kath¬ 
leen.” 

“I am all right,” said Stella restlessly. “Only-’ 

W T ords faltered on her lips, and she made a gesture of 
fear. 

“Perhaps we are alarming ourselves needlessly,” ob¬ 
served Stonnard, trying to speak cheerfully. “Sir Roger 
may have gone out for an early walk.” 



168 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“Do you think so”—Stella’s face was unreadable— 
“do you really think that, Mr. Stonnard?” 

Stonnard looked uncomfortable. “He may have.” 

Lady Mercer, regarding Stella, answered this. “No,” 
she said sharply. “That untouched bed in the next room 
does not look like an early morning walk. Besides, Roger 
would not have gone off like this without leaving word. 
He would never have scared us with such a stupid freak— 
I know him far too well to suppose it. There’s some 
other reason for his absence.” 

“Some terrible reason.” These words came impetu¬ 
ously from the pretty lips of Kathleen like a flash of 
steel—a challenge, as it were, to the man at whom she 

was looking. “He must be alive, but I fear—I fear-” 

She could not say any more. 

The answering glance which Robert gave her was a 
strange one. “What do you fear?” he asked. 

She shook her head. That was a problem she was 
not competent to answer unaided. Lady Mercer looked 
from one to the other. 

“Child,” she said, “leave this to me. No; not to me, 
for it is beyond me and beyond us all, so we must hand 
over this terrible mystery to some one better able to 
investigate it for us.” She went to the telephone on the 
bureau. “I shall telephone for Colonel Glenluce,” she 
said. 

“Would it not be better to wait a little longer?” sug¬ 
gested Robert. 

“Wait? For what?” Lady Mercer, turning over the 
pages of the telephone book, glanced up impatiently. 
“We must delay no longer. That would only make mat¬ 
ters worse.” 

The next moment she spoke in a loud voice into the 
instrument, asking for a trunk call to London. 




CHAPTER XVII 


COLONEL GLENLUCE ARRIVES 

S HE was awaiting him, full of impatience, when he 
reached Redways in the afternoon. 

“At last!” she said, as she gave him her hand. 
“My dear Lady Mercer!”—his tone was expostulatory 
—“I left everything and came at once.” 

“I know, I know. It is good of you. Forgive me, 
Colonel Glenluce. The time has seemed long. This 

strange disappearance of my brother-in-law-” 

“Tell me all about it, Lady Mercer.” 

She told him everything in lowered voice. For that 
precaution there seemed little need. Their interview took 
place in the secluded Painted Room, and they were alone, 
unless the Eye over the mantelpiece could be considered 
a listener. Even so, its discretion could be relied upon. 
Lady Mercer’s low rapid tone strained the attention of 
her hearer. He listened full of concern, his hopes of 
some simple explanation vanishing as she talked. 

“Oh, this seems impossible!” he exclaimed when she 
had finished. “A man like Sir Roger cannot disappear 
in this fashion from his own house.” 

“Nevertheless, it has happened,” she said. 

“Without a suggestion, not the merest hint, that he 
intended to go away?” 

She shook her head. “Should I have sent for you in 
that case?” 

“Then he must be found.” 

169 



170 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“Do you think any harm has befallen him?” 

He looked grave. “I trust not.” 

“Colonel Glenluce”—she spoke with deliberation—“do 
not think that because I am a woman I am also a fool. 
Why should Roger leave home in this stealthy manner, 
leaving us all a prey to suspense and anxiety?” 

He could think of no convincing answer. “It is un¬ 
doubtedly strange. Still, he may have had some impera¬ 
tive reason—some urgent call.” 

“Come, Colonel Glenluce, do not try to hoodwink me.” 
She looked at him keenly. “Let us face the facts. Roger 
cannot have vanished into thin air. And there is no 
reason, no conceivable reason, why he should have gone 
off in this way. I fear-” 

She paused. 

“What do you fear?” he asked. 

She made an expressive gesture. “Everything.” 

He endeavoured to speak cheerfully. “Let us not be 
pessimistic. Some news may come at any moment. If Sir 
Roger does not return, we may hear from him.” 

“Unless he is dead.” 

“Oh, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts,” he 
counselled again. “They can do no good, in any case. 
Meanwhile, leave everything in my hands. I will do all 
that is possible—all that can be done.” 

“It is a great relief to have you here,” she murmured. 

He deprecated that. “Myself—I do not count. But 
I have resources, if necessary, at my command,” he 
hinted. 

She bowed her head in acknowledgment of the forces 
of authority at the beck of his official position. The 
reflection seemed to give her strength. She even smiled 
a little. 

“Very well. I will leave everything in your hands, 




COLONEL GLENLUCE ARRIVES 


171 


and hope for the best. Here are Roger’s keys. Mr. 
Stonnard found them on the bureau this morning when 
the house was being searched. You will do just as you 
think fit.” 

She hesitated, and he saw that she had something 
more to tell him—something on her mind. He remained 
quiet, waiting. After a while she lifted her head, and, 
glancing towards the closed door, said a little wearily: 

“Colonel Glenluce, strange things have been happening 
in this house.” 

Again he kept silence, waiting for her to continue. 
But her next words surprised him: 

“Things have been different since Robert came back.” 

“In what way?” he asked, with a swift realization that 
some strange disclosure was to come. 

“Ever since his return there has been some mystery 
in the house.” Her reply was tinged with hesitation, 
nervousness even. “I have my own thoughts, but I’ve 
kept them to myself so far. But last night, in the draw¬ 
ing-room, I noticed something which made things a little 
clearer to my own mind. There seems to me to be some 
understanding between Robert and his father’s wife.” 

Glenluce looked his wonderment. “What kind of an 
understanding ?” 

“I think that they are attracted to each other. Wait!” 
she continued, holding up her hand. “I must tell you 
everything that is in my mind. It is right that you 
should know. I feel sure that Stella is infatuated with 
Robert, which comes to the same thing.” 

“She is his father’s wife,” he began. 

“Ah, you do not know Robert as I do. He does not 
look at life like other men. Many people are cynical 
and reckless in thought, but not in action. Robert is. 
He has the courage of his convictions. The things which 


172 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


count for us do not count with him. He believes in noth¬ 
ing, and acts accordingly. I do not understand Stella 
so well, but she is weak, and when a beautiful woman is 
weak tragedy follows her very closely. . It is an easy 
matter for a woman like Stella to wreck her life, given 
the circumstances. I believe that they have arisen with 
Robert’s return. Her eyes follow him unconsciously and 
soften when they dwell upon him. I have watched her. 
Besides- 55 

She came to an abrupt stop, as if even her own world¬ 
liness was startled by the implications of her sugges¬ 
tion. 

The implication was clear enough to Glenluce, but he 
did not believe it. He had an innate distrust of all femi¬ 
nine disclosures in such matters, believing that sex was the 
monomania of women. Besides, he did not see where this 
particular disclosure was taking them. Was his com¬ 
panion inferring that Sir Roger’s wife and son had any¬ 
thing to do with his disappearance? He essayed a plati¬ 
tude to conceal his thoughts. 

“There is such a thing as a moral law which every 
man recognizes in his heart. No man is wholly bad.” 

“I never suggested that Robert was bad,” she retorted 
impatiently. “He’s merely reckless, which is quite a dif¬ 
ferent thing. He cares nothing for conventional morality; 
at least, not for that form of it w r hich allots one woman 
to one man; though, Heaven knows, that division of the 
sexes exists only in theory to-day. It is curious how 
that type of man can always carry a woman off her 
feet. Robert is very fascinating, though. He has a way 
with him, when he chooses.” 

“Do you know the reason which took him out of Eng¬ 
land twelve years ago, and whether it still exists?” 

“I know nothing about that except that they quar- 



COLONEL GLENLUCE ARRIVES 


173 


relied.” She looked at him. “I thought Roger had con¬ 
fided the story to you.” 

“He wished to, but I declined to hear it. That was 
on the day of Robert’s return.” 

“This room knows the reason.” She surveyed the 
allegorical panels. “It was in here that they had their 
last interview. When it was over Robert bounced out 
of the house and out of England. His mother died with¬ 
out knowing the truth of the matter. Roger never told 
her. Even on her death-bed he refused. It must have 
been something serious to keep Robert away from home 
so long.” 

He nodded gravely, and then reverted to her suspicions. 
“Well, Lady Mercer, as to the other thing you’ve men¬ 
tioned, if you are correct—and I hope that you’re not—I 
do not see how it could throw any light on Sir Roger’s 
absence.” 

“It might suggest a reason for his disappearance.” 

He was shocked at this hint, and cast an apprehensive 
glance around him. 

“That is rather a reckless thing to say, Lady Mercer,” 
he said, with an air of grave rebuke. 

She accepted the reproach with perfect composure. 
“I may be wrong of course. But Roger has disappeared, 
and cannot be found. I have asked for your help, so I 
thought it better to tell you this.” And at that she 
rose to go. 

He rose also. “One word more. Does anyone know 
of this suspicion of yours besides myself?” 

She returned his glance with wise eyes. “No, I have 
not been so foolish as that, and I sincerely hope that 
I am wrong.” She gave him a wan glance, and left the 
room. 

She would have been surprised to know how little her 


174 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


disclosure affected him. It was not that he deemed it 
impossible. But some profound instinct, as he believed, 
told him that it was a complete lie as far as Robert Lynn- 
garth was concerned. He put Lady Mercer’s story out 
of his mind, or tried to, for the present at least, and ap¬ 
plied himself to the task of solving the mystery of his old 
friend’s disappearance. 

By evening he had reached the conclusion that the 
mystery was beyond his unaided powers. He wished now 
that he had brought down a couple of good men from 
London. Glenluce had too much English common sense 
to suppose that the accident of political influence which 
had given him a high position in the Home Office had 
made a detective of him at the same time. He had no 
quarrel with the political system which placed square pegs 
like himself in round holes. It was a system wdiich worked 
well enough in the main, and, after all, it suited England. 
Only, it was not quite the post he would have chosen for 
himself, if he had had any voice in the matter. 

At Redways that day he had already done more peep¬ 
ing and prying than he cared for. He had searched the 
house and examined the servants without result. He had 
learnt that Sir Roger had gone to his study on the pre¬ 
vious night shortly after dinner, and had been served there 
with coffee by the butler, who had been told by Sir Roger 
that he was busy writing letters and did not wish to be 
disturbed again that night. No one else had seen him 
after, though the light was observed beneath the door of 
the Painted Room when the household retired to bed. 
There was nothing strange in that; the master of the 
house sometimes sat up late reading and writing, and on 
these occasions slept in the Oak Bedroom adjoining his 
study. Such was the scanty history of Sir Roger’s move¬ 
ments on the previous night, from which nothing more 


COLONEL GLENLUCE ARRIVES 


175 


was to be gleaned than the fact that he had disappeared 
as completely as if spirited away by a genie on a magic 
carpet. 

These inquiries occupied Glenluce’s day, and it was 
nearly dinner-time before he reached the conclusion men¬ 
tioned. To be exact, it was between the sounding of the 
dressing gong and the moment of that meal. Dressed 
for it, Glenluce walked in the garden smoking a cigar, 
and thinking about Sir Roger’s mysterious absence. He 
was unable to see a ray of light anywhere. From the 
garden he walked across to a high antique wall which had 
been built on that side of the house as a protection from 
the bitter winds which swept across the river flats from 
that quarter in the winter. A ledge ran along the inside 
of this wall, high up, and wide steps mounted to an old 
garden house of the sixteenth century which had been 
built on the top. Glenluce ascended to this quaint arbour 
and walk to enjoy the evening air. 

It was a favourite place of his, commanding an exten¬ 
sive vista of the surrounding country and the winding 
river. Absorbed in his meditations, his eye wandered idly 
over this familiar scene, then turned nearer home. As he 
did so, he became aware of two figures standing in a rustic 
lane between the wood and the river, not far from the 
house. He had a glimpse of a man with one arm dangling 
over a crutch, like the drooping pinion of a maimed bird. 
His companion was a woman. 

At the moment he caught sight of them the woman 
turned away, walking with quick step in the direction of 
the house. She emerged from a clump of trees, and he 
recognized the graceful form of Lady Lynngarth, making 
for a small gate which opened off the garden into the 
wood on the far side of the house. As she approached, 
Robert appeared in the garden, and went towards the 


176 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


gate to which her footsteps were taking her. Stella did 
not see him until they were almost face to face. She 
stopped short, made a faltering step forwards, and then, 
somewhat to the surprise of the observer in the arbour, 
quickened her pace again and hurried past Robert with¬ 
out a word. Robert stood where he was, looking after 
her as she entered the garden. His arm swept the air 
with a strange wild gesture. The next moment he passed 
through the garden and disappeared in the shadow of 
the wood. 

Pondering over these incidents, Glenluce descended 
from the wall and turned his steps slowly in the direction 
of the house. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


WHAT THE BUREAU REVEALED 

D INNER that night was a sombre affair: the pre¬ 
tence of a meal presided over by the shadow of an 
absent figure. The night before the master of 
the house had sat in his place, safe and honoured; but 
now his chair was vacant—he had gone without word or 
sign. This was a thought to repress conversation, for 
here was a mystery more disquieting than death: some¬ 
thing unknown, which had entered and stayed, but re¬ 
mained invisible. What did it mean? What had be¬ 
come of Sir Roger Lynngarth? These were questions 
which no one could answer. 

Glenluce, putting them to himself, glanced more than 
once towards the head of the table, as if some impalpable 
visitant there might make a reply. Once he met Rob¬ 
ert’s eyes, as if the same thought had come to him. 

The meal drew to a quick end. When it was over, 
Stella looked at Lady Mercer, who immediately rose, 
straight and dignified, and left the room with a cere¬ 
monious : “Good night, I think I will go to my room.” 

Stella and Kathleen followed in her wake, the younger 
girl pausing near the door to glance towards Colonel 
Glenluce with a nervous smile, as though she dreaded the 
ordeal of the night now setting in. Glenluce observed 
that she had been weeping. 

After they had gone the men sat for some minutes 
without speaking. Glenluce and Stonnard smoked 
cigarettes from a silver box on the table. Robert filled 


178 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


a pipe with care, but did not light it. It was he who broke 
the silence. Turning to Glenluce, he said: 

“Have you discovered anything?” 

“No, nothing,” was the reply. There was such sad¬ 
ness in the young man’s face that he added: “I am 
completely nonplussed. It’s a matter beyond me. I 
thought when Lady Mercer rang me up that she was 
probably alarming herself unnecessarily, but now I’m 
sorry that I didn’t bring a good detective with me. I 
came as your father’s friend. I am not a detective— 
indeed, I have little capacity for that sort of work.” 

He spoke with frankness, because his sympathies had 
gone out to his friend’s son. He wished sincerely that 
he could help in some way. 

Robert nodded without speaking. It was Stonnard 
who continued the conversation. 

“What are you going to do now?” he asked. 

“I will take proper steps.” The voice of Glenluce un¬ 
consciously stiffened into official reticence. “Let us trust 
they will be unnecessary. I still hope that my old friend 
is quite safe. He might walk in on us at any moment.” 

“That is hardly likely, I’m afraid.” The secretary’s 
eyes bore a puzzled look. “Sir Roger was the most 
methodical of men.” 

“What do you suppose has happened to him?” asked 
Glenluce abruptly. 

“I cannot say—I wish I could form an idea. But I 
do know that the position admits of no delay.” 

“I am aware of that,” replied Glenluce sharply. “I 
am bringing down two of my best men from Scotland 
Yard in the morning.” 

Stonnard’s nod expressed acquiescence in the wisdom 
of that action. He went on: 

“That is not all. What is to be done if Sir Roger 



WHAT THE BUREAU REVEALED 179 


doesn’t return and the mystery of his disappearance re¬ 
mains undiscovered? Several matters have already arisen 
since last night which press for settlement.” 

“Let us not suppose the worst—yet,” suggested Glen- 
luce gently. 

“I said ‘if,’ ” rejoined Stonnard quietly. 

“Quite so, but that is supposing the worst. For the 
present, at least, you should be guided by the advice of 
Mr. Lynngarth, who in his father’s absence takes his 
place.” 

“As for that-” Stonnard stopped short. 

“What were you going to say?” asked Glenluce in sur¬ 
prise. 

The secretary glanced across the table. “Something 
I had no business to mention,” he said slowly. 

“Stonnard means I had arranged to leave England in 
a few days,” interposed Robert. “As a matter of fact, 
I was to have gone to London to-day to complete final 
preparations for my departure. I was to have sailed 
next week.” 

“Sailed—for where?” Glenluce asked. 

“To New Guinea in the first place.” Robert looked 
straight into Glenluce’s eyes. 

“How did this come about?” 

“By mutual agreement,” responded Robert tranquilly. 
“It was my father’s wish, and I was only too glad to 
leave England again. That is the short truth of the 
matter. Of course I shall not go now—until my father’s 
disappearance is accounted for. Stonnard may therefore 
regard me in my father’s place for the time being.” 

Glenluce looked from one to the other in silence. 
There was some undercurrent here he did not understand. 
After a pause Robert rose to his feet and walked deliber¬ 
ately from the room as if to give Stonnard the oppor- 



180 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


tunity of explaining something which his presence might 
keep back. Glenluce had no doubt of that. 

After he had gone Stonnard began to talk, but not of 
Robert. He spoke of Sir Roger’s disappearance, ad¬ 
vancing various speculations and surmises about it. 
Glenluce now conceived the notion that the secretary 
talked about the father to forestall any questions he may 
have wished to ask about Robert’s reasons for leaving 
England again. He had no intention of doing so. It 
was not in his nature to seek details of what had evidently 
been a private conversation between father and son. 

A sound in the next room broke into their conversation. 

“What was that?” exclaimed Stonnard, glancing 
towards the door. 

“Only a window banging, I fancy.” 

“This thing has upset me.” Stonnard glanced at his 
watch, then rose to his feet. “I think I must ask you 
to excuse me, Colonel Glenluce. Sir Roger was to have 
moved the vote of thanks at a meeting in Winchester to¬ 
night, so I suppose I had better motor over and apologize 
for his absence. Shall I explain the reason? It may 
not be known, as the servants have been warned to say 
nothing. Still, news of this kind generally spreads 
quickly. It is a delicate situation, and I should be glad 
of your advice.” 

“I should say nothing to-night if nothing has been 
heard,” Glenluce responded. “I still hope there may be 
some simple natural explanation of Sir Roger’s disap¬ 
pearance very soon.” 

Stonnard nodded with a relieved face. 

“Good night, then,” he said, and left the room. 

Glenluce sat on, contemplative over a solitary cigar. 
His meditations were undisturbed. The house was quite 
still and seemed deserted. 


WHAT THE BUREAU REVEALED 


181 


His thoughts dwelt first upon the two incidents he had 
seen from the garden wall before dinner. They struck 
him as curious, but he did not think they had any bear¬ 
ing upon his old friend’s disappearance. What explana¬ 
tion was there of that—what possible interpretation? 
He racked his brains trying to imagine one. Why should 
Sir Roger disappear in this strange fashion from his own 
home, apparently in the middle of the night? He could 
find no theory. 

He rose, cigar in mouth, and went towards the door. 
The explanation could not be waited for. It must be 
sought—sought for in the Painted Room, or the bedroom 
which adjoined it, where the clue to the secret probably 

lay. 

The old house was steeped in silence, and he met no one 
on his way down the long dim corridor. Taking from 
his pocket the keys Lady Mercer had given him, he un¬ 
locked the door and switched on the light. 

The light revealed the outline of familiar things and 
a glimpse of the empty bedroom through the half-open 
inner door. The study was orderly and tidy, though 
bearing signs of recent occupation. The carpet showed 
marks of footprints, but that was not strange after what 
had happened. Plainly a number of people had been in 
and out. The bureau was now locked, but Glenluce had 
the key. He decided to open the bureau and examine it. 

It was a beautiful and antique piece with long lower 
drawers and an upper writing part containing nests of 
small drawers and a closed panel in the centre. Glenluce 
first looked into the pigeon-holes, but could find nothing 
there except papers and accounts relating to the estate. 
He searched the neat array of documents methodically, 
and next turned to the centre panel, which was also locked. 
Again he found the key to fit it. Within was an aperture 


182 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


in which lay a large envelope. Glenluce drew it forth, 
and saw with some surprise that it bore his own name. 
He opened it with an ivory paper-knife, which he picked 
up, and two enclosures dropped from the envelope onto 
the bureau. The smaller envelopes were sealed. One 
was endorsed “Not to be opened until after my death,” 
and the other bore the words “Open immediately.” Glen¬ 
luce obeyed, and drawing forth a single half-sheer of 
notepaper, read the few undated lines the letter contained: 

“My pear Glenluce, 

“If anything happens to me, I beg of you, as a 
friend, to read the second enclosure in the large envelope, 
and do what you can to help the unhappy being whom 
it concerns.” 

The letter was in Sir Roger’s formal pinched hand¬ 
writing, and signed by him. Glenluce carefully examined 
it, and then picked up the other envelope, with the feel¬ 
ing that the key to the whole mystery probably lay in 
his hand. He inspected the seal on the second enclosure 
and scrutinized the superscription, wdiich was unquestion¬ 
ably in Sir Roger Lynngarth’s hand, and seemed to have 
been recently written, for the ink looked fresh. He 
turned the packet over, glanced at the open letter on the 
bureau, then looked again at the envelope in his hand. 
The circumstances were so unusual that he felt tempted 
to disregard the written injunction and open it to see 
what light it might throw upon the disappearance of his 
absent friend. It was for casuists to decide w r hether the 
motive justified the deed. Glenluce, no casuist, but an 
honourable gentleman, hesitated. 

As he hesitated he became aware of a moving shadow 
in the gleaming surface of the mahogany beneath him 
where the open letter lay. The shadow glided and wav- 


WHAT THE BUREAU REVEALED 183 


ered a little, then became motionless. He was at first 
puzzled to account for its presence there, but under the 
sharpened gaze of his ai rested attention it took the form 
of something pale and oval—the faint reflection of a face 
looking over his shoulder at the letter on the bureau. As 
he made out this much the shadow vanished and the pol¬ 
ished wood became clear again. 

Glenluce turned round, but in doing so slipped on the 
parquet floor. He recovered quickly and looked about. 
There was nothing to be seen. 

L'he corridor was in darkness. Glenluce struck matches 
to light him down it, and went to the end. It seemed 
astir with hidden nocturnal life of its own. Boards 
creaked and curtains stirred for no apparent reason, but 
when Glenluce switched on the electric light he could 
see nothing human there. He examined the curtains and 
looked into the hall. Nothing. 

Slowly he returned, wondering whether anyone had 
vanished through one of the closed doors of the corridor, 
but he believed he would have heard or seen the closing 
door. A thought occurred to him. The bedroom within 
the Painted Room—Sir Roger’s room? That was a 
possibility he had overlooked. He quickened his steps. 

The Painted Room seemed as he had left it, with the 
door open and the light on. But Glenluce’s face changed 
as he looked towards the bureau. The sealed envelope 
he had left there was gone. 

He made hurried and fruitless search of the bureau, 
and then looked rapidly about him. He made a thorough 
examination of the study, and then of the inner bedroom. 
Both were empty. Returning to the Painted Room, he 
observed that the window-blind was flapping in the wind. 
Approaching it, he pulled the blind aside, and saw that 
the French window was open. 


184 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


He went out on the lawn. There was an autumn light 
in the sky, but the night was a dark and gloomy one. 
Realizing the folly of any search or pursuit, Glenluce 
stepped back into the Painted Room and closed the win¬ 
dow. 

But for the disappearance of the letter, he could have 
almost persuaded himself that the whole inexplicable 
incident was imagination. But the letter was gone, and 
the open window bore out the theory that it had been 
purloined by some thief who had looked over his shoulder 
and seen it in his hand. He was annoyed at his folly 
in rushing from the room into the corridor, and thus 
giving the intruder a clear outlet of escape. A clue of 
unknown importance had been snatched from his hands 
—before his eyes, as it were—and he was more than glad 
now to think that he had sent for two men to come down 
and investigate the case. He did not know what con¬ 
nection there was (if any) between this theft and Sir 
Roger Lynngarth’s disappearance, but he did know that 
the mystery was beyond his unaided powers to fathom, 
and he could make no guess at the meaning of it all. 
Luckraft was the man for it, and he was glad that he 
had sent for Luckraft. 

He left the study and locked the door behind him. 
The loss of the letters had impressed him disagreeably, 
and on reaching the end of the corridor he turned toward 
the smoking-room w T ith the idea that a cigar before going 
upstairs would be soothing. He opened the door and 
glanced in. Robert was sitting there alone, apparently 
reading, but Glenluce observed that the book was held 
askew, and the eyes of the reader fixed on the carpet. 

He closed the door gently again, and went on his way 
upstairs. 



CHAPTER XIX 


THE TOLL, OF THE BELL 

K ATHLEEN knew not what watchful sentinel of 
subconsciousness beckoned her from sleep, start¬ 
ling her into instant wakefulness, penetrating 
her with unusual fear. She sat up, breathing fast, look¬ 
ing out from the refuge of the bed. Darkness enveloped 
her, welled over her head like the waters of a pit. She 
reached out her hand to the electric button at her bedside, 
but before she touched the switch it dawned upon her 
that the light would not come. The lighting in that wing 
of the house was out of gear—something had gone wrong 
with the current. She fumbled in the darkness for 
matches. Her fingers closed over the box, and she lit 
the candle on the small table beside her. 

The candle swelled into a little pool of yellow light, 
then dwindled to a lambent blue point, as if shrinking 
from the darkness. That remained impenetrable and 
mysterious. Kathleen’s eyes sought in vain to pierce it. 
The candle burned more brightly, and she glanced at her 
w T rist-watch. Half-past two! She had been in bed 
nearly four hours. What had awakened her? 

She went to the window, and, opening it wider, looked 
out. The night, dark, heavy and breathless, yet sug¬ 
gested the coming power of an unrisen moon, which in 
some intangible way outlined the shape of the trees with¬ 
out revealing them. Not the faintest air stirred in the 
silent woods. The silence was so absolute that she heard 
the rustle of a falling leaf. 

185 


186 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


A faint sound reached her from outside the door; a 
slight creaking, followed, so it seemed, by the padding 
of a stealthy foot. She turned, listening intently, but the 
silence was again complete. Fancy, perhaps; or was it 
the ghost? She rated herself for her folly. She, who 
had always laughed at the Redways ghost—at all ghosts. 
No modern girl believed in such rubbish. Still, that 
stealthy, creeping sound! But, then, the Redways ghost 
could not creep. It lacked legs. It was only an eye . . . 
the malevolent eye of an old monk who had been dis¬ 
possessed of his grave. The servants believed in it, but 
servants were credulous, ignorant, superstitious. . . . 

She found herself gazing at the candle. The blue inner 
light within the yellow r flame took the semblance of an 
eye—aged, filmy, blue, regarding her coldly, curiously. 
She shivered, and closed her own eyes. 

No, no, this would never do! She took herself in 
hand, quickly, determinedly. Opening her eyes to their 
fullest extent, she stared at the flame with a contemptuous 
smile. As if conscious of her incredulity, it flickered and 
flared up angrily, no longer an eye, but unmistakably a 
candle. 

She was pleased with her little triumph of common 
sense, and smiled to herself, though a little tremulously. 
Nerves, she told herself; just nerves—the upsetting 
events of the last twenty-four hours. The turmoil of her 
feelings had shaken her. She must be calm and quiet, 
and go to sleep again. 

But the thought of sleep repelled her. She was too 
wakeful, too restless. Wrapping a dressing-gown about 
her, she sat by the window, looking out. 

Her mind dwelt upon Sir Roger’s disappearance with 
an intensity which, it seemed to her, might have been 
the cause of her sudden aw T akening. That vanishment 


THE TOLL OF THE BELL 


187 


was the culmination of a mysterious sequence of events 
which had overturned the serenity of her life and de¬ 
stroyed her happiness. Perhaps her inner consciousness, 
brooding on these things while she slept in the effort 
to find their solution, had caused her to awake. But she 
also had the feeling that the awakening was, in some 
sense, the result of some inward warning. If so, what 
did it portend? That she could not guess. The thoughts 
which thronged her brain were too tumultuous for 
analysis. 

The velvety softness of the night gradually calmed 
her hot brain like the gentle pressure of a cool tender 
hand. The rising moon slowly cleared the trees, touch¬ 
ing the river into quicksilver, filtering a chequer-board 
of light and shade through the trees of the little wood, 
making bright paths down the green slope at the side of 
the house, revealing in dark outline the ruined abbey on 
the crest of the slope. 

Her eyes rested on the old abbey tower in its tangled 
setting at the edge of the wood. She loved it for many 
reasons, this harbourage of the forgotten dead. Her 
glance, dwelling on it now in that wonderful harmony of 
shadow and brightness, seemed to see it- softened, en¬ 
larged, complete, as it had once stood complete, a thing 
of pure beauty against the dark sky. 

That, indeed, was imagination, though she was not con¬ 
scious of the effort which produced the vision. Real 
enough it seemed, and not the essence of a dream. It 
grew, though not the work of incarnate hands, taking on 
added beauty in the darkness. It grew as she watched; 
arched windows made magic appearance in the deep set¬ 
ting of riven grey stones. It grew, in symmetry, shape, 
completeness, until the airy fabric of the faultless abbey 
appeared as it had stood before the coming of the English 


188 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


Terror. It gleamed with long extinguished lights, the 
lamps shone once more before the shrines. Within she 
seemed to see the procession of cowled monks stealing 
down through the darkness of the transept steps to their 
narrow stalls, and hear their voices chanting in solemn 
measures the first antiphonal hymn of the coming day. 

The mirage vanished suddenly as a dream, and the 
edifice crumbled imperceptibly back into the old tower 
Kathleen knew so well: a concrete substantial shape, 
thrusting a massive head into the clearer sky from the 
deep shadow of the undergrowth in which it stood. 
Kathleen gave a light sigh. She had known it was a 
vision while she looked, but she was sorry that it had 
gone so quickly. Her old tower! How forlorn and 
lonely it looked in the moonlight, without the abbey! 

Suddenly the bell in the tower pealed out—once. 

At that sound, so monstrously improbable, she started 
to her feet in terror. This w r as no dream, no fantasy of 
the past. That single clang of the long-silent bell had 
reached her ears too distinctly to be mistaken for the 
play of fancy. Clearly and distinctly she had heard it 
vibrate through the impalpable darkness to her startled 
ears. Who had entered the deserted bell-tower and 
pulled the rope at that hour of night, and for what pur¬ 
pose? The door of the tower was usually locked, and 
who knew where the key was? 

What did it mean? A warning, a call, a portent? To 
her alone? If so, why? Nervously, she glanced from 
the window again, half expecting to see the abbey float¬ 
ing in the air, lighted and complete, the repetition of the 
earlier chimera. But no, the tower showed solitary in its 
familiar stark outline of ruin; decrepit, grey; an ivy-clad 
remnant of the past, as lifeless and forgotten as the 


THE TOLL OF THE BELL 189 

bones of the monks buried beneath the greensward at the 
foot. 

The one faint toll of the bell had been real. She knew 
that. The tremulous, mellow T sound seemed still to be 
chiming in her brain. Perhaps the bell would ring again. 
She stood still, straining her ears. Nothing more: only 
that one haunting note. Enough; yes, quite enough! 
It meant that somebody had gone to the tower; was still 
there, in the darkness, alone. She shuddered at that 
thought. She could not shake off the impression that 
this was a summons, a command, sent to her for some 
purpose which she dared not try to guess. Only it was 
borne in upon her imperatively that she must investigate 
it, that she must find out who had rung the bell in the 
tower. How was she to do it? Go there alone or arouse 
somebody in the house? She did not know. She only 
knew that she had to do something. Actuated by a 
force stronger than herself, she walked to the door and 
threw it wide open. 

The corridor stretched empty and dark before her. 
The house was wrapped in silence. Not a sound. In the 
distance the white figure of Echo loomed dim and mys¬ 
terious, her turned head listening intently. How long 
Kathleen stood motionless at her door with uplifted can¬ 
dle she never knew. Then to her eyes a light appeared 
like magic in the distance of the other corridor, a light 
which gleamed larger as the figure which carried it ad¬ 
vanced. It was Robert Lynngarth. 

She would sooner have seen some one else, but her fear 
and agitation were gladdened at the sight of any human 
soul. Walking quickly, he approached the corridor in 
which she stood. 

“Robert!” she breathed. 


190 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


He stopped astonished at the sight of the little figure 
in night garments, and disordered hair. 

“Kathleen!” he exclaimed. “What is it? Is anything 
the matter?” 

“I was going to look for somebody,” she answered in 
agitation. “I was frightened ... I heard a noise.” 

“What kind of a noise?” 

“The tolling of a bell, from the old abbey tower . . . 
where we used to play.” 

His glance showed utter incredulity. 

“That bell has not been tolled for ages. Who would 
ring it now? Are you sure you were not mistaken?” 

“No, no, no!” She uttered this rejoinder rapidly, as 
though to assure him by the mere repetition of the nega¬ 
tive. “I heard it distinctly.” 

“How often?” 

“Once.” 

“Only once?” 

“Yes, only once,” she said, clasping her hands ner¬ 
vously. “Do not imagine that I dreamt it.” 

“I do not say so,” he replied. “My thought was that 
it might have been caused by a bird—perhaps an owl— 
brushing against it in the dark.” 

“That is not likely.” She spoke decidedly. “How 

could an owl get into the tower? I think-” She 

stopped suddenly. 

“What do you think?” he asked, with a searching 
glance. 

“That it may have something to do with his—Sir 
Roger’s disappearance.” 

Again he looked at her keenly. “I do not understand 
how that could be,” he said. 

“He might be locked up in the abbey tower,” she whis¬ 
pered. 



THE TOLL OF THE BELL 


191 


“What would take him there?” he asked coldly. 

“Oh, how can I say?” she rejoined, clenching her 
hands convulsively. “Who knows what has happened 
in this terrible house during the last week? Mystery 
upon mystery, and then—this.” 

Her finger pointed through the doorway to the bed¬ 
room window, where the outline of the old abbey tower 
showed darkly on the rise against a background of moon¬ 
lit sky. He followed her gesture, then his eyes returned 
to her face. 

“What do you mean to do?” he asked. 

“I am going to see who rang the bell.” 

“You will do nothing so foolish,” he said authori¬ 
tatively. 

She flashed a scornful glance. “So that is your advice? 
Do you think that I am afraid of the dark?” 

“That was not in my mind,” he retorted coldly enough. 
“What I thought is of small moment. I may believe 
you to be the victim of an hallucination, or to have 
imagined this thing. But if my father—or anyone—is 
shut up in the abbey tower, how is it that there was only 
one single peal of the bell?” 

She was rather staggered by the force of this question, 
but she would not allow him to see that it weighed with 
her. There followed a period of silence, in which Robert 
stood quite still, in a listening attitude, his face turned 
in the direction of the window. But there was no sound: 
all things were wrapped in quiet. 

Kathleen broke the silence: 

“I will go and see.” 

He looked at her, speaking masterfully: 

“You shall not go.” 

“You must not prevent me.” 

“I cannot prevent you, certainly, but it will be much 



192 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


wiser for you to remain here while I go. I will return 
quickly and tell you.” 

She glanced at him with eager eyes. 

“You will go?” 

“Yes; at once.” 

“Oh, you are good.” There w r as gratitude in her look 
now, for at that moment she was forgetful of all things 
in the sense of his nearness, his strength, and the memory 
of the old affection between them. The light of the 
candle she held in her hand fell upon the dusky clearness 
of her small face, the pure curve of her dark eyebrows, 
and the sparkling eyes uplifted to his. 

He was not looking at her. His head was still turned 
toward the door in listening attitude. But the silence 
remained profound; silence without, within. They might 
have been alone in a dead w r orld wrapped in everlasting 
peace. He sighed. An expression of weariness on his 
face, and something more than that—something she could 
not read—caused her to cry, instinctively, nervously: 

“You are not angry with me, Robert?” 

“Why should I be angry with you, Lady Fibbets?” 

He left her at that, but she stood in the corridor look¬ 
ing after him until he reached the head of the staircase, 
and disappeared through the opening between the velvet 
curtains held apart by the white arm of the statue. 
Then, remembering with a swift mantling blush that she 
was really wearing very little more than that scantily 
clad goddess of antiquity, Kathleen ran back into her 
bedroom to dress and await Robert’s return. 



CHAPTER XX 


FATHER AND SON 

O UTSIDE the house Robert made for the tower by 
the shortest way, passing swiftly through the 
wood with the careless ease of one familiar with 
the path. A silver moon hung motionless in the dark 
vault of the sky, and the light fell through the leafy 
screen, making gleaming tracks between the trees. He 
hastened forward beneath branches which drooped wearily 
in the lifeless air, into the heart of the wood where night 
held sway, and nothing broke the heavy silence but the 
distant song of the river beyond the flats. Where the 
trees thinned out again he caught a glimpse of the stream, 
whispering and murmuring between reedy banks. His 
eyes followed it down, and then turned across the open 
space to where a light flickered in the darkness. It came 
from the cottage of the gamekeeper. Robert stared at 
the faint light steadily, as if wondering why the occupant 
kept such late vigil. Next moment he resumed his w r ay 
towards the tower. 

It rose before him at length, a stout shape muffled in 
ivy, unlighted, silent, grim. It was a picture of desola¬ 
tion at that moment. If the bell aloft had been rung, 
the ringer seemed to have gone on his way again, unless 
he still lurked within the tower’s dark jaws. Robert, 
standing in the open space before it, seemed in no hurry 
to find that out. He stood still, looking round him. 
The place and the hour might well have induced contem¬ 
plation in a meditative mind. The silvered wing of night 

rested upon a peaceful scene: a sleeping country-side, 

193 


194 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


woods and meadows, and a glittering river. In the pro¬ 
found stillness some woodland creature sniffed hard by, 
then scuttled away into the undergrowth from the human 
figure which had come to its nocturnal haunt at that 
unseasonable hour. 

Robert aroused himself, and approached the tower. 
From it no sound or light had come. In massive outline 
it confronted him, ivied and grey, as it had confronted 
other eyes long crumbled to dust, a solemn and worn 
relic of a forgotten past. It seemed impossible to believe 
that anyone had visited it that night for the purpose of 
tolling the bell which now hung motionless and invisible 
in the shadow of the tower. 

The oaken door was shut. Robert tried it, but the 
stout oaken frame refused to yield. Although he thought 
it was caught or fastened inside, he struck a match and 
sought for the key, but he could not find the hiding-place 
which Kathleen had shown him. He returned to the 
door, but it w^ould not budge. Evidently it had been 
firmly secured in some way, and that struck him as very 
strange. He stood back, his face white in the moonlight, 
as though a nameless fear had settled upon him. After 
a moment’s pause he beat on the oak with his hand, and 
called out loudly. The shrunk timber gave back a dull 
sound, but nothing more, and his hail died away into 
absolute silence. Again he hammered and called, and 
again there was no response. At that he fell back once 
more, eyes riveted on the silent bell-tower, as if in quest 
of something human or spectral within the shadow of the 
bell. 

As he stood thus he saw a light glimmer between the 
trees, swaying erratically, as if guiding footsteps unaccus¬ 
tomed to the way. Instinctively he marked its progress 
as it came nearer. At last a man’s form emerged from 


FATHER AND SON 


195 


a clump of trees, and by the lantern he carried Robert 
recognized Glenluce. He came straight towards the 
tower, and in the circle of light shed by the lantern their 
faces regarded each other questioningly. Glenluce spoke 
first. 

“I have been sent in search of you,” he said. “Kath¬ 
leen came to my room after you had gone, and told me 
about the bell. The child was nervous and full of fears 
on your account. She accused herself of being selfish— 
of allowing you to go into danger. What is it? Have 
you discovered anything?” 

“No sign of a bell-ringer, if that is what you mean,” 
rejoined his companion moodily. 

“There may be some one in the tower, if Kathleen 
heard aright. Have you tried the door?” 

“It is fastened.” 

Unconsciously Glenluce seemed to doubt this assertion 
by rattling the door of the tower himself. He also ham¬ 
mered on the door, and loudly called. The wood rang 
with his cry, “Is anyone there?” but the silence within 
the tow’er remained unbroken. He swung the light on 
the door, while the other stood by. His scrutiny fin¬ 
ished, Glenluce looked round. 

“I think we could manage to break the door in,” he 
said. 

“Perhaps the key is on the grass,” suggested Robert. 

Glenluce seemed to think the idea good, and examined 
the grass with the light. 

“No,” he said, rising. “I cannot see it. But look 
here! Some one has been about recently.” 

Robert’s eyes followed the direction of his finger. The 
clinging undergrowth at the entrance of the wood was 
broken and beaten down, as though somebody had forced 
a furious way through. 


196 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“Odd!” Glenluce bent down again to examine the 
place, first setting the lantern where it cast a steady 
flame in the windless air. “The marks seem to have 
been made quite recently,” he said. “It is very strange; 
I do not understand it at all. I wonder-” 

He broke off sharply as something bright in the under¬ 
growth caught his eye, and picked it up. In the light 
the thing he had recovered glittered in the rays of the 
lantern, and they could both see it for what it was: a 
pair of gold-rimmed glasses attached to a black silk rib¬ 
bon. The two men exchanged glances. Glenluce was 
about to speak, but Robert forestalled him. 

“My father’s glasses,” he said, with swift memory of 
when he had last seen his father wearing them. 

Glenluce nodded slowly, a look of fear in his eyes, and 
again turned to the tower, environed by flickering 
shadows. 

“Lynngarth, Lynngarth! Are you inside? It is I— 
Glenluce.” His voice went up into the night, and died 
away. He turned to his companion. “I think we had 
better break in the door,” he said. 

Robert made no reply, but came forward and placed 
his shoulder against the door. Glenluce made a move to 
help him, but the younger man motioned him back. The 
door leaped and creaked in its shrunken frame, and held 
for a while against Robert’s efforts, then gave way, and 
flew open. Through the doorway the moonlight fell upon 
a square recess and green fern-fronds growing in the 
thick, grey walls. But the tower seemed empty. Glen¬ 
luce, holding up the light, saw Robert’s eyes turned 
towards the opposite wall. 

“Give me the lantern,” he said. 

He entered the tower, holding it up, and it was then 
that Glenluce caught sight of what he had not previously 



FATHER AND SON 


197 


seen: a few stone steps cut in the thickness of the opposite 
wall, leading up into another apartment beneath the bell- 
tower. Glenluce eyed these steps with a certain uneasi¬ 
ness. Their worn and narrow tread carried his mind 
back to mediaeval times, and suggested the stealthy foot¬ 
falls of sandalled monks. No doubt they were pictur¬ 
esque by day, but at that moment they inspired strange 
thoughts. A small door was visible at the top of the 
stone steps, and Robert, indicating it with his hand, made 
his way up the stone flight with the same restrained com¬ 
posure he had shown throughout. 

The door at the top had no lock, but was fastened with 
an iron handle. The door yielded a little when this was 
pushed down, then stopped. Robert Lynngarth held up 
the lantern to see the obstacle within, and Glenluce peered 
over his shoulder. He it was who caught the first glimpse 
of a prone form within. 

“There is something lying on the floor,” he said in a 
hushed tone. “Go gently, Lynngarth.” 

Robert Lynngarth glanced and fell back. Glenluce 
caught the light from his hand and pushed through the 
partly opened door, well knowing what he was going to 
find there. His companion came after, and they stood 
together, looking down. 

The light fell clear upon the form of Sir Roger Lynn¬ 
garth, lying on his back in a posture of stark rigidity. 
Glenluce bent over him, but the body was cold. 

“We are too late,” he said, looking up. “Your father 
is dead.” 

“Dead !” cried Robert. The lantern in his hand shook. 
“Dead?” he repeated, and put the light down by the 
dead man’s side. 

“Yes; he has been dead for hours,” said Glenluce sadly. 

They regarded each other in silence, their faces in 


198 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


shadow, the dead man’s in the light. The same thought 
was in the minds of both, and Robert gave utterance to 
it: 

“Who rang the bell?” As he spoke his eyes searched 
the shadowy recesses of the bell-tower above his head. 
Glenluce looked from the troubled face of the son to the 
still features of the father, as though seeking an answer 
to the question there. In the faint diffused ray of the 
lantern the late owner of Redways seemed at that mo¬ 
ment to be engaged in a profound contemplation of the 
depth of the tower directly above his head. The rope 
dangled from the darkness above, drooped on his breast, 
and trailed to floor beside his outstretched and open 
hand. Glenluce, looking down at him, was seized with the 
terrifying thought that the dead man had himself rung the 
bell which revealed his secret hiding-place, and brought 
them to his assistance too late. He thrust that gruesome 
idea from him with quick determination, with an irritated 
perception that this strange discovery had allowed the 
intrusion of morbid thoughts into the orderly current of 
his mind. In his position calmness and common sense 
would be expected of him, in the face of such a tragedy. 
Besides, it was apparent to him that his poor friend had 
been dead for some time. 

“The bell? Who can say?” He spoke confusedly, 
still struggling against the reaction of his thoughts. 
“His murderer, no doubt—though why, I cannot tell.” 

“Do you think he has been murdered?” Robert asked 
in a low tone. “I see no marks—no blood.” 

“Why-” Glenluce looked up in sharp surprise, then 

scanned the body again. It was as Robert said. There 
was no blood or signs of violence. The dead man, attired 
in evening clothes such as those Glenluce had last seen 



FATHER AND SON 


199 


him wearing, had the look of one who had died in sleep; 
of one who might have come to that place for the purpose. 
Again Glenluce had to fight down morbid and nameless 
thoughts before he could reply. 

“I think it must be murder.” He spoke with an effort, 
but firmly. “We must act quickly, though I expect that 
the scoundrel who did this is far away by now. Oh!” 
he exclaimed, struck by a sudden thought. “You know 
this tower, I expect, knew it as a boy, no doubt. Think 
now, is there anywhere in it where a man could hide— 
any recess in the thick walls ?” 

“None.” 

“Could it be possible for anyone to climb up to the 
belfry and hide there? Suppose, for instance-” 

He made a gesture in the direction of the trailing rope, 
and Robert understood the trend of his thought. 

“Impossible—I should think,” he said. 

Seemingly Glenluce was not altogether reassured. He 
took the light and held it high, flashing it round the grey 
contour of the ancient walls. Far up, a narrow aperture 
in the thick stonework admitted air and light, and above 
this could be discerned the triangular platform of the 
turret, within which Tvas suspended the motionless shape 
of the bell. But there was no human figure crouching 
on the platform around it, and a careful scrutiny con¬ 
vinced Glenluce that it was impossible as a hiding-place, 
even if any human being was sufficiently agile to reach 
that eminence by clambering up the rope. 

“You are right,” he remarked to his companion. “No 
one could hide up there. Nevertheless, somebody has 
been here and escaped, but how?” 

“By the window opening downstairs, I should say.” 

“Leaving the door fastened inside? Well, this is a 




200 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


terrible discovery, and I do not understand it at all. 
However, we must not stand here talking. There is 
much to do.” 

“What must we do?” returned Robert. 

“In the first place we must have the body removed from 
here.” 

“Can we have it removed home?” 

“Of course. Why not?” 

“I thought nothing could be done until the police had 
seen-” 

“I am the police,” said Glenluce austerely. “I have 
noted everything.” 

Robert nodded. He had forgotten the other’s official 
standing. 

“Come, let us return to the house and arouse assist¬ 
ance,” said Glenluce. “We must also get a doctor and 
acquaint the police. We had better go at once.” 

Robert hesitated. “Hadn’t one of us better remain, 

until they come for the-” He held off the word with a 

visible effort. 

“Indeed, that would be wise,” replied Glenluce. “Per¬ 
haps-” He stopped, and his thought died unspoken. 

“Which of us shall it be? Would you prefer-” 

“I will stay here until you return,” said Robert. 

“Then I’ll leave you the light.” Glenluce put it into 
his hand. “The moon will be sufficient guide for me 
back. I’ll send some men from the house, and return 
myself after I have telephoned for a doctor and the 
county police.” 

He turned to go. At the door he glanced round, and 
saw Robert standing by the dark figure on the floor, look¬ 
ing down upon it. The lantern in his hand revealed his 
sad and thoughtful face, with the shadow of some secret 
reserve on it. Such was the impression Glenluce carried 






FATHER AND SON 201 

away from the tower, and it was one he was never able to 
forget. 

The door swung to behind him. The man left behind 
remained motionless, the lantern suspended in his hand. 
The sound of his companion’s departing footsteps died 
away, and was succeeded by an intense and profound still¬ 
ness. On the wall a lizard showed like a streak of yellow 
upon the grey stone, peeped at figures of father and son 
w T ith glistening eye, and vanished stealthily back into its 
chink. A snail, creeping upwards to some distant goal, 
shrank back into its shell when it reached the focus of the 
unaccustomed light. 

For some minutes Robert stood still, gazing intently 
down upon the face beneath him. Then, as if yielding to 
some uncontrollable impulse, he sank on his knees by his 
father’s side. 


CHAPTER XXI 


COLLOQUY AT REDWAYS 

T HE Master of Redways made his last home-coming 
at dawn; borne slowly through wood and garden 
to the silent house. It w T as Glenluce who broke 
the tidings to those within, and saw the still form of his 
old friend laid in the small oak bedroom downstairs. 
Glenluce did all he could to spare the young wife, now 
alone in her room, and refusing to see anyone. It was 
Glenluce who sent for doctor and police, and relieved the 
dead man’s son of those irksome duties which tread upon 
the heels of death. The son, now Sir Robert Lynngarth, 
was well content that this should be so. He seemed to 
lean upon his father’s friend and to be grateful for 
the quiet thoroughness with which he restored some 
semblance of quietude and order to the dismayed house¬ 
hold. 

Lady Mercer, too, was glad to have him there: tactful, 
sympathetic, a gentleman; a man you could depend on. 
Yes; he was all that, and more. At that moment she 
was talking to him in a nook of the breakfast-room, where 
a window looked out on the lawn. Kathleen was upstairs, 
and Robert was walking in the garden. Lady Mercer 
was glad they had gone. She wished to have Glenluce 
alone. 

She had dressed and descended as soon as the news 
reached the house. In that crisis her nerves had not 
failed her. As she said, age had the virtue of endurance, 
and bore calamity better than unseasoned youth. The 

lamentable event had been debated between them, and 

202 


COLLOQUY AT REDWAYS 


202 


the doctor’s opinion discussed. Glenluce had sent for the 
nearest doctor, who had examined the body and expressed 
the view that Sir Roger had died from a seizure: heart 
failure, probably. No; nothing to suggest violence. 
There were no external injuries of any kind beyond a 
slight superficial scratch on the threat, which could have 
been caused by the act of shaving. Dr. Dawfield added 
that death had taken place some hours before, and ex¬ 
pressed the opinion that in all probability Sir Roger had 
died suddenly on the night of his disappearance. Beyond 
that he could not go. The deceased gentleman’s regular 
medical attendant might be in a position to say more, and 
perhaps give a certificate. Thus the little spectacled 
country doctor, rather nervous and flustered at this sum¬ 
mons to the great house at dawn; vague and hesitating in 
his answers, yet precise enough to lighten Glenluce of 
some dark fears which had preyed upon him since the 
finding of the body. 

Strange and mysterious still, but speculation was best 
deferred until the arrival of Dr. Reginald Drewer, the 
Redways physician for a quarter of a century or more r 
summoned by telegraph from a country consultation 
twenty miles away. Yes; strange, perhaps, and very 
sad too, but better to know the worst than suffer the 
harassing uncertainty of the last twenty-four hours. So 
thought Lady Mercer, who had started visibly at Dr., 
Dawfield’s view, as if it banished something uneasy from: 
her own mind also. She had no doubt Dr. Drewer would 
tell them more. He was quite a friend, and knew Roger’s: 
constitution thoroughly. It was very terrible that Roger 
should have died so. Lady Mercer had her own theory 
to account for it. Roger had stepped out of the French 
window of his library to take a stroll in the late evening, 
was overcome with sudden illness, and crept to the toweir 


204 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


to summon the household by ringing the bell. The the¬ 
ory left several points unexplained, but there was the 
doctor’s opinion to support it. Besides, Lady Mercer 
was not concerned with explanations. She had Colonel 
Glenluce to fall back upon. It was his duty, not hers, to 
investigate. 

She was looking at him now with serious eyes. Her 
face showed fatigue—was a little haggard. Loyalty to 
the family was the great thing in her mind at that mo¬ 
ment. She had something to say to Glenluce, but did not 
quite know how. 

Glenluce stood soberly by as she talked, rather uneasily, 
for her. She mentioned Stella and Kathleen. She was 
anxious to spare them as far as possible. They were both 
young, and ought to be protected. 

“Though Kathleen is bearing up bravely,” she said. 
“But Stella—I am anxious about her. Completely over¬ 
come, since the moment I broke the news to her. Kath¬ 
leen would like to see her, but she’ll not have anyone 
near her. She is grieving terribly. I suppose we can 
only be patient, and wait. Stella has a tender heart— 
most sensitive and affectionate. I can see now that she 
must have been very fond of Roger.” She paused before 
adding: “When you came yesterday I never thought or 
imagined-” 

Again she broke off in the effort to utter what she 
wished to say. Then courage came for her to continue: 

“Colonel Glenluce, I want you to forget what I said 
yesterday.” 

He was doubtful of her meaning: of how far she went. 

“About what?” he slowly asked. 

“Robert and Stella.” She breathed the names. 

“Do not talk of this now, Lady Mercer,” he gravely 
rejoined. 




COLLOQUY AT REDWAYS 205 

“I must. It was a mad and wicked thing to do. A 
woman’s tongue is an unruly member, Colonel Glenluce, 
acting on its own volition sometimes. I should have 
been silent. My idea was that Robert and Stella were 
attracted to each other, but there was nothing in their 
conduct to warrant my strong words. What I told you 
was mere surmise—unwarrantable surmise on my part. 
Please believe that. I little thought of the terrible dis¬ 
covery awaiting us when I spoke. That is my only ex¬ 
cuse.” 

He was glad to hear this, and told her so. “Think no 
more of it,” was his advice. “We have other things to 
occupy our minds. I have sent for detectives, as you 
know. They will be here by the next train.” 

Lady Mercer was startled. “Detectives! I had for¬ 
gotten. Are they necessary—now?” 

“A mere formality,” he hastened to add: “That is, if 
Dr. Drewer confirms the other opinion. Do not alarm 
yourself needlessly. You shall be spared as much as 
possible.” 

“I was not thinking of myself,” she replied, “but of 
poor Roger’s feelings, if he were alive. There will be talk 
—publicity: the thing he loathed most. He cared more 
for the family name than anything in the world. Can¬ 
not this be avoided, Colonel Glenluce?” 

“I am afraid not.” He was uncomfortable, feeling 
that she should not have made this request. “The facts 
must be investigated, you know. It will be nothing, if 
Dr. Drewer thinks with Dr. Dawfield.” 

“An investigation into the death of a Lynngarth!” 
She sighed, and was silent for a moment. “Does Robert 
know of this?” 

“He must expect it.” 

Again she was silent. Robert passed by the window,. 


206 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


still walking in the garden. Her eye dwelt on the sight 
of him there, thoughtfully and earnestly. Her next re¬ 
mark surprised Glenluce. 

“I wonder will Robert remain in England—now.” 

He looked his surprise. “Surely! His duty lies here, 
now that his father is gone. He is the last of his line.” 

“The reason which took him aw r ay twelve years ago 
still exists, I imagine, whatever it is.” 

“That should be all past and buried now.” 

“Perhaps. It depends upon what it is. I thought 
you knew—that Roger told you.” She looked at him 
calmly. 

“No,” he replied. “He did not.” 

“Then Robert is the only person alive who knows this 
secret, whatever it is.” 

“Quite so. Need we discuss this, Lady Mercer?” He 
met her eyes gravely. “It is not quite the moment-” 

“Curiosity was not my motive,” she broke in. She 
sighed again. “I was thinking of the future, wondering 
what would be the outcome of it all. That’s why I think 
it would be better if there was no publicity over Roger’s 
death, for Robert’s sake.” And with that she left 
him. 

Glenluce remained, pondering over her remarks, and 
why she had made them to him. She had failed to per¬ 
ceive the delicacy of his position. It should have been 
clear as daylight to her that he, the friend of the family, 
had also to do his official duty. Lady Mercer should not 
have forgotten this, and he had been prompted to remind 
her. If Sir Roger had died naturally that did not justify 
Lady Mercer overlooking her appeal to his high official 
position for help. Better, no doubt, if she had not done 
so, for his professional honour now called upon him to 
probe into matters perhaps better left alone. Two of his 



COLLOQUY AT REDWAYS 


207 


subordinates were hastening to him for that purpose* 
Circumspection was necessary: a wise reserve in what he 
imparted to their experienced ears. What good could 
come of investigation, after all, when there was nothing 
for the law to avenge? 

They came presently, the trusted subordinates, in a car 
sent to the station for them; great men in their own way, 
bringing with them an official photographer and finger¬ 
print expert. The rural policeman outside the study 
door fell back in a tremor, as if divinity approached. 
Superintendent Merrington, massive, immense, arbitrary, 
nodded a ponderous head at him as he passed through. 
Chief Inspector Luckraft, thin and pale, disdained to cast 
a glance at the obsequious constable. The door closed 
behind them, and the policeman resumed guard. The 
expert and photographer waited outside until they were 
needed. 

In the Painted Room Glenluce imparted to his hench¬ 
men such particulars as he deemed advisable. They lis¬ 
tened with attention, Merrington in Sir Roger’s chair, 
Luckraft leaning across the back of another. Glenluce 
spoke chiefly to Luckraft, whom he regarded as his best 
detective: one versed in every move of the game, and an 
officer of few mistakes. Merrington did not think so 
highly of his colleague’s ability; certainly not while he 
was about. 

“An unusual case!” was the latter’s comment when 
Glenluce concluded. “What do you think, Luckraft?” 

His colleague nodded without reply. He had been 
noting the contents of the room. The bureau seemed to 
attract his attention. 

“If the doctor’s diagnosis is correct, there will be noth¬ 
ing for us to do here,” pursued Merrington. 

“We shall be able to decide that presently,” said Glen- 


208 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


luce. “Dr. Drewer has just sent a telephone message to 
say that he will be here soon.” 

“The other doctor’s opinion seems definite enough, but 
Sir Roger’s own doctor should be able to put the matter 
beyond all doubt. About this bell, now. Was Miss 
Kathleen Chester the only one to hear it ring?” 

“Yes,” said Glenluce. 

Merrington shook his head. 

“I don’t understand that, but it is not very important, 
if death is due to natural causes. Miss Chester may have 
imagined she heard it in her sleep.” 

“Rather a big assumption, that,” remarked Glenluce, 
with a slight shake of the head. 

“Oh, I don’t know. She was no doubt overwrought by 
her guardian’s disappearance, and from what you tell us 
this old abbey seems to have been a favourite haunt of 
hers. It’s unusual, though, this ring of the bell—whether 
real or imaginary.” 

“Even if Miss Chester imagined the ring, that does not 
explain what took Sir Roger to the abbey,” Glenluce 
observed. 

“Out walking, I should say, and overcome by illness,” 
suggested Merrington. 

“That is Lady Mercer’s view,” remarked Glenluce. 

“There seems no other explanation to me. But we 
had better look at the body. Where is Luckraft?” 

During this conversation Luckraft had opened the 
French window and walked out on the lawn. From there 
he had vanished from view. He now reappeared around 
the side of the house, examining the grass. 

“Footsteps here,” he observed, as he drew near. 

“I was out there last night,” replied Glenluce, with a 
swift recollection of the circumstances. 

“They are indistinct, but I hardly think they 


are 


COLLOQUY AT REDWAYS 


209 


yours,” said Luckraft. “They puzzle me, rather—a deep 
and light footstep alternately. Unfortunately, it is im¬ 
possible to take satisfactory casts of them in the grass. 
I will examine them more closely later. Meantime, I 
should like to have a look at the inside of this bureau, 
Colonel Glenluce, if you have the key. I can see finger¬ 
prints on the surface.” 

“I was examining it myself, last night,” remarked 
Glenluce, unlocking it. He had not yet decided whether 
to inform his subordinates that he had allowed a letter 
within it to be spirited away under his nose. That was 
an admission he hesitated to make if there were no occa¬ 
sion for it. The letter was addressed to him privately, 
as a friend, by the dead man, and if it concerned his son 
(as Glenluce believed) its disappearance seemed to have 
no bearing on Sir Roger’s death. Glenluce decided to say 
nothing. He could disclose the information later, if 
necessary. 

As for Luckraft, the interior of the bureau seemed to 
interest him; not the drawers, which he left unopened, 
but the surface itself. Glenluce wondered what he saw in 
it. After an interval Luckraft spoke. 

“There is more than one finger-print here,” he said, 
raising his head. “It will be as well to have them photo¬ 
graphed before they disappear.” 

“It looks like waste of time—to me,” said Merrington. 

“One never knows,” murmured the other. “They are 
very clear. It would be a pity-” 

“Peters can photograph them while we are in the other 
room,” broke in Merrington impatiently. “As this seems 
to be merely a case of accidental death, I think of return¬ 
ing to London at once.” 

He walked into the inner room as he spoke, but Luck¬ 
raft waited to give an instruction to the policeman at the 



210 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


door before following. Then he joined Glenluce and 
Merrington in the bedroom. 

They stood at the edge of the bed, looking down upon 
the quiet form lying there. The colourless face was tran¬ 
quil, the eyes peacefully closed. Glenluce, motionless and 
absorbed, felt a touch on his arm. Luckraft, bending 
close, pointed to a faint mark on the neck. Glenluce 
nodded. 

“Yes; the doctor mentioned it. Might have been 
done while shaving, he thinks. I have another theory— 
the undergrowth around the abbey where the body was 
found. The brambles and blackberries are very thick. 
I scratched my hand there this morning in the dark.” 

“It looks as if there is another slight mark, higher up,” 
continued Luckraft. 

“I don’t see that,” remarked Merrington sharply. 

The talk ceased. Luckraft moved away from the bed, 
employing himself silently in looking round the room. 
They were interrupted by a sharp knock on the outer 
door. Glenluce looked into the library and saw a tall 
figure on the threshold. It came forw r ard. 

“How do you do, Colonel Glenluce? I came at once— 
the moment I received your wire. A sorrowful occasion, 
this.” 

Glenluce shook hands with Dr. Reginald Drewer, whom 
lie knew well; a tall and portly man, with glasses and a 
glossy beard. In spite»of the latter almost obsolete ap¬ 
pendage, Dr. Drewer looked clever and interesting, and 
was an imposing and handsome presence. Glenluce liked 
him, and knew that Sir Roger had placed great faith in 
his skill. 

“Sad, indeed, Drewer,” he replied. “Thank you for 
coming so soon. Dr. Dawfield thinks our poor friend 



COLLOQUY AT REDWAYS 211 

died from a seizure, but we should like your authoritative 
opinion.” 

“Quite so—quite so. Lady Mercer has explained: A 
very tragic death indeed. But I am not surprised. 
Now-” His eyes turned towards the bed. 

Glenluce acted on the hint. “We will await you in the 
other room,” he said. 

The three withdrew, and Glenluce closed the door be¬ 
hind them. A young map, tall, pale, and spectacled, was 
in the act of packing up a photographic impedimenta in 
the other room. He looked towards Luckraft. 

“Two capital impressions, sir,” he observed, moving 
towards the door as he spoke. 

“Very well, Peters. I think you had better return and 
develop the plates at once. They may be needed.” 



CHAPTER XXII 


DISCOVERIES 

T HE subsequent medical disquisition on the causes 
of sudden death was followed more attentively by 
Glenluce than his subordinates. The interest of 
those efficient officers in the case diminished perceptibly 
when they heard Dr. Reginald Drewer’s first words. His 
observations on angina pectoris may have had a profes¬ 
sional tendency towards obscurity, but he made it quite 
clear that Sir Roger Lynngarth had fallen a vicitim to 
that baffling and secret disease, and had died more than 
twenty-four hours before the discovery of the body. In¬ 
dications of violence? None whatever—certainly not! 
Sir Roger had been under treatment for advanced cardiac 
affection for some weeks past, and Dr. Drewer was not 
surprised at his sudden death. His was an established 
case, with the usual symptoms: faintness, blanching of 
the skin, difficulty in breathing, though not much pain. 
But angina varied greatly in that respect—there was such 
a thing as angina sine dolore; that was, angina without 
pain. The symptoms varied. It was not always easy to 
define their pathological significance, but unfortunately 
in the case of Sir Roger there was no room for doubt. 
The disease was well established when he sought medical 
advice—it usually was, in such cases, Dr. Drewer added. 

“When did he first consult you about this?” Glenluce 
asked. 

Dr. Drewer gave the date as early in September, the 

day after Sir Roger’s son returned from abroad. Mr. 

212 



DISCOVERIES 


213 

1 

Stonnard, who telephoned for him, had informed him of 
that event when he arrived. He found Sir Roger looking 
fatigued and ill, and his breathing was difficult. He said 
he had had an attack of faintness in the night which had 
distressed him, and he thought he should like to be ex¬ 
amined. 

“I examined him and questioned him about what he 
called his slight attacks of dizziness, but, unfortunately, 
the disease had reached a stage beyond medical skill.” 
Dr. Drewer shrugged his shoulders. “As a rule, it is not 
until the attacks are severe enough to alarm the sufferer 
that medical advice is sought, and then it is too late.” 

“Did you tell Sir Roger?” said Glenluce. 

“In a guarded way. He insisted on knowing. I told 
him that the heart was affected, though I kept from him 
that he was liable to die at any moment. I told him— 
which was quite true—that there was no cause for alarm, 
and that if he was careful there was no reason w r hy he 
should not live for years. On my advice he saw Sir 
Charles Radwell. Sir Roger went up to London for the 
purpose, as he did not want Lady Lynngarth to know. 
Sir Charles confirmed my diagnosis. He told me that the 
great vessels were impaired and the coronary arteries 
degenerate. It was his feeling that Sir Roger’s family 
should be informed, but Sir Roger would not hear of it. 
He said he would not have Lady Lynngarth alarmed. In 
some aspects he was a rather difficult patient—difficult 
to advise, I mean. I did not press the matter. There 
seemed no immediate urgency. Frankly, I did not expect 
this rapid fatal termination. It is possible to suffer 
from angina 'pectoris for many years and then die of 
something quite different. One can never tell, though. 
It is inadvisable to be too dogmatic about a disease like 
this—decidedly so. It is very difficult to define in some 



214 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


forms, though Sir Roger’s case was one of the essential 
type. In his case no cure was possible: only simple 
measures of relief, such as little exertion, freedom from 
worry and anxiety, and as much fresh air as possible.” 

Glenluce heard Dr. Drewer with mingled feelings, but 
relief was uppermost. It was a sad business, but might 
have been worse—yes, very much worse. The medical 
verdict which assured him that his worst fears were 
groundless also simplified his course considerably. He 
was glad that he had not mentioned the vanished letter 
to his subordinates. That episode now appeared to his 
eyes in a new aspect. The letter had probably been 
written by Sir Roger in the sense of impending death, 
and had been taken by his son in order to safeguard 
the secret—his secret—which he feared, no doubt cor¬ 
rectly, had been enclosed within. An improper thing 
to do, but only Robert Lynngarth could decide with, 
his conscience whether the circumstances justified the 
deed. Glenluce felt that it was not for him to pronounce 
upon the morality of an act which freed him from a 
responsibility from which he shrank. There were still 
some points unriddled, but the realm of mystery was 
not so extensive as he had feared. If Sir Roger had died 
naturally, he had died away from his house, and the place 
of death had not been discovered until revealed by a 
mysterious ring on an unused bell. That last point was 
beyond Glenluce’s comprehension. He had not attempted 
to reason it out, but he had not lost sight of it, none 
the less. The plausible theory that Sir Roger might 
have lain in the tower for some time before he was able 
to summon the household to his aid was finally upset 
by the calm precision of Dr. Drewer’s statement that 
death had occurred more than twenty-four hours before 
the body was found. With the hope of obtaining some 


DISCOVERIES 


215 


light upon the obscure point of the bell, Glenluce asked 
Dr. Drewer how he came to fix the time of death. 

“I do not fix it,” replied the doctor. “That would be 
impossible. What I said was, that as rigidity had passed 
away, Sir Roger had been dead for some considerable 
time—twenty-four hours at the least, and perhaps longer. 
It depends on the duration of rigor mortis.” 

“And you cannot say how long that lasts?” 

“Quite impossible. It is influenced by many things: 
age, the cause of death, atmospheric temperature, and so 
on. It sets in from three to six hours after death, and 
may last hours, or perhaps days. Twenty-four to forty- 
eight hours is about the average, but it is very unsafe to 
make any general inference regarding it. All I can say 
in Sir Roger’s case is that it had passed away. Beyond 
that I cannot commit myself.” 

“But is it not strange that he should die where he 
was found?” asked Glenluce. “What would take him 
there?” 

“As to that, I cannot say,” returned Dr. Drewer 
decidedly. “It is not my province to speculate. He 
may have taken a walk after dinner and gone to the 
tower, feeling ill. As for the strangeness of it, permit me 
to remark that heart disease is no respecter of time or 
place.” 

“True,” said Glenluce, “but perhaps the exercise of 
walking in his enfeebled state-” 

“Not such exercise as that,” interrupted the doctor. 
“It was beneficial in his case. Sir Roger was fond of 
strolling slowly about his grounds, and I told him it would 
do him no harm—was good for him, in fact. It gave him 
the open-air life he needed.” 

“Still, if he went up the steps to summon assist- 

99 


ance 




216 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“More likely for fresh air. Breathlessness and faint¬ 
ness are very distressing symptoms in angina, and the 
night before last was very close. There are only a few 
steps, if I remember rightly.” 

“He fastened the door behind him, I understand,” 
said Luckraft. 

“Strange, but just what I would expect Sir Roger to 
do, if he went there feeling ill. He would not care for 
any chance intrusion on his privacy in his illness—or at 
any other time, for that matter.” 

“Assuming it happened so,” said Glenluce, “there is 
still one point, and the most important of all, which re¬ 
mains unexplained. Who rang the bell?” 

“And for w T hat purpose?” added Luckraft. 

“I do not think much of that point about the bell,” 
said Merrington. “It might have been Miss Chester’s 
fancy. Nobody else heard it, and she only heard one 
faint peal.” 

“She was right, as it turns out,” remarked Glenluce. 

“Then perhaps a bird,” suggested Merrington. 

Glenluce shook his head. “That’s unlikely. I con¬ 
fess that I utterly fail to understand this ring of the bell. 
It seems to lend a sinister colour to Sir Roger’s death. 
You must remember that the door was fastened inside, 
and we had to break it in.” 

“Is there a window?” asked Luckraft quickly. 

“A window opening—yes, though I did not know that 
until we had forced the door.” 

“Then whoever rang the bell had to get through the 
window?” said Dr. Drewer. 

“Or left that way,” observed Luckraft, with a sig¬ 
nificant look. “In any case, the fastened door carries 
with it the assumption that the visitor knew that the body 
was within.” 


DISCOVERIES 217 

“Why should anyone go there?” asked Merrington. 
“To ring the bell?” 

“No,” returned Luckraft hesitatingly. “But suppose 
some one did know that Sir Roger’s body was there, and 
went there at night to search it, and while doing so 
accidentally rang the bell.” 

Glenluce looked at Luckraft quickly, but Merrington 
shrugged his shoulders. 

“Too far-fetched 1” he said. “A very weak presump¬ 
tion, without motive or intention. There might be some¬ 
thing in it if Sir Roger had been murdered. As it is-” 

“Then how do you account for the ring?” asked Luck¬ 
raft. 

Merrington shrugged his shoulders again, but did not 
reply. He had his private opinion about the bell, but 
did not deem it politic to express it. 

“The bell is a curious point,” observed Dr. Drewer. 
“Miss Chester must have heard it. My own feeling is 
that there is a quite natural and simple explanation of 
this seemingly mysterious summons. I have an idea-” 

“I should like to hear what it is,” Glenluce broke in. 

“I should prefer to go to the tower before saying any¬ 
thing more definite,” rejoined Dr. Drewer, with a trace of 
hesitation. “If you gentlemen will accompany me-” 

“One moment 1” exclaimed Merrington. “In my view 
the bell is not worth considering. In your opinion, Dr. 
Drewer, Sir Roger Lynngarth might have died at any 
time?” 

“Why, yes; if you wish to put it that way,” said the 
doctor. 

“You see nothing unusual in his death in such circum¬ 
stances?” pursued Merrington. 

“Nothing whatever,” replied Dr. Drewer emphatically. 
“When I report the death to the local authorities, I shall 





218 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


inform the coroner that, in my opinion, there is no neces¬ 
sity for an inquest.” 

“Very good.” Merrington lifted his great frame from 
the chair in which he had been sitting. “Then, if you’ll 
excuse me, Colonel Glenluce, I think I’ll return to London 
immediately. I am very busy, and there is nothing to 
detain me here after what Dr. Drewer has said. There is 
a train I can just catch, if I go now. I may as well send 
Peters and Cordell back by it also. There’s nothing here 
for them to do.” 

Glenluce assented with a nod, and Merrington went 
out with a hasty farewell. Luckraft made no sign of 
accompanying his colleague. Dr. Drewer, glancing at 
his watch, proposed that the three of them should walk 
up to the tower, and they set out. 

The trees were clad in the deeper tints of late autumn: 
russet, orange, and crimson, and the way through the 
wood was carpeted thick with leaves, which crackled 
sharply underfoot. The tower was quiet and deserted, 
and the door was open, showing the interior and the steps 
leading to the upper room. Glenluce and the doctor 
ascended, leaving Luckraft examining the floor below. 

Glenluce pointed out where the body of Sir Roger had 
been found, and indicated the exact position at the doc¬ 
tor’s request. He briefly narrated all the circumstances, 
and the doctor listened intently. When Glenluce con¬ 
cluded he stood staring up into the bell-tower, as if 
ruminating deeply. The rope, falling from the gloom 
above his head, hung beside him. Dr. Drewer tested it 
with his hand, still apparently deep in reflection. Then, 
to his companion’s surprise, he laid himself on the dusty 
floor beneath the turret, pulled the rope down, and re¬ 
leased it. A faint single peal of the bell followed this 
experiment, which seemed quite unaccountable to Glen- 


DISCOVERIES 


219 


luce. Dr. Drewer rose to his feet, and dusted his clothes. 

“Merely a test,” murmured the doctor, as he caught 
the other’s questioning look. “I wanted to ascertain 
whether the bell would give more than one peal if the 
rope was held and released that way. As I said, I’ve 
the feeling that the ring Miss Chester heard is easily 
accounted for. I’ve good reason for thinking so, though 
I should like to have more time to think it out. Still, 
so far as it goes, my idea is-” 

“Yes?” said Glenluce eagerly, as the other came to a 
sudden pause. 

Luckraft appeared in the doorway, as though sum¬ 
moned from below by the peal of the bell. Dr. Drewer 
glanced at him and remained silent. The detective pro¬ 
ceeded to examine the upper room without inquiring why 
the bell had been rung. Then he asked the doctor a 
question: 

“Would shock have hastened Sir Roger’s death?” 

“Most decidedly,” was the reply. 

“If he had been attacked?” 

“What do you mean, Luckraft?” said Glenluce, con¬ 
siderably startled. 

“A bird might have flown through that window and 
blundered into his face,” said Luckraft, after a pause. 

Dr. Drewer stared at him. “You’re talking nonsense,” 
he said brusquely. 

“Perhaps I am,” murmured Luckraft, with an impas¬ 
sive face. “My mistake, doctor.” 

Dr. Drewer, irritated, said no more. Glenluce felt that 
the renowned Luckraft was not showing to particular 
advantage at that moment. After a moment of silence 
Glenluce turned to the ruffled doctor. 

“You were saying you thought you could account for 
the ring of the bell.” 



220 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“A theory—I said.” 

“I should like to hear it.” 

“Wait until I have given the matter more thought. I 
cannot discuss it further now. I’m a busy man, and my 
professional duties await me. Good morning!” And he 
was gone. 

Glenluce looked up, faint displeasure in his eyes. “I 
am going back to the house, Luckraft, where you will 
find me if you wish to see me.” He put his hand upon 
the door and went out also. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


REFLECTIONS IN A TOWER 

I UCKRAFT remained behind, deep in thought. Peace 
« brooded in the tower, but downstairs the door 
creaked querulously in the wind. Luckraft heeded 
it not. His eye dwelt in sober meditation on the rope 
which fell from the bell-tower and coiled like a sleeping 
snake at his feet. Luckraft was in the frame of mind 
which used to be called a brown study. The trained fac¬ 
ulties of a beneficent public servant were not satisfied 
with the investigations into Sir Roger Lynngarth’s death. 
It was not that the excellent subordinate suspected foul 
play. Luckraft did not doubt the correctness of the 
medical verdict, but he was beset with the feeling that 
there was more in this case than met the eye. 

There were points which interested him professionally, 
and he would have liked to examine them further. Un¬ 
usual points too, as he considered them. He enumerated 
them now. A scratch, footsteps on the lawn (the right 
foot deeper than the left), and a similar footprint outside 
the tower. What bearing had these matters upon the 
death of the owner of Redways, whose body had been 
found in a tower with the door fastened inside, with a 
window opening downstairs large enough for a man to 
squeeze through, as Luckraft had proved by experiment? 
One way and another, there would have been the making 
of a pretty case if the deceased baronet had come to a 
violent end, instead of dying peaceably in the tower, like 

a man in his bed. And there was this bell, now. Yes; 

221 


222 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


it would have made a very remarkable case. The inward 
feeling of Chief Inspector Luckraft at that moment was 
that this tame conclusion in such unusual circumstances 
was not quite fair—not altogether in accordance with the 
rules of the game. The points remained in his inner 
consciousness and bothered him so much that he was led 
to form a theory to account for them. Strictly speaking, 
it was not a theory so much as an idea, which, if he could 
have proved it, might have helped to solve some of the 
problems of his mind. Unfortunately for his zeal, he did 
not see much opportunity of testing it in the light of 
further investigation. The doctors had spiked his guns 
there. 

His idea overlooked the bell, which was the most strange 
and unaccountable point in the case. Luckraft puzzled 
over it fruitlessly. Had some one, knowing the body was 
there, gone to the tower to inform the household at Red- 
wavs, and Redways only, by ringing the bell softly, in¬ 
stead of making a clamour which would have aroused 
the country-side? That seemed unlikely enough, but what 
explanation was there acceptable to both reason and 
common sense? Luckraft could see none. Excluding 
such improbable contingencies as a bird’s wing or a gust 
of wind, he was faced with the uncanny enigma of a 
dead man in a lonely tower, and a bell which rang without 
hands. And why had not the bell been rung until twenty- 
four hours after the baronet’s death? 

Strange things happen in this world, and Luckraft was 
impervious to surprise as a general thing. His occupa¬ 
tion had taught him to distrust the surface of appear¬ 
ances. He knew that circumstance sometimes lied more 
convincingly than humanity, perhaps through lack of 
speech for contradiction. But here w r as something seem¬ 
ingly beyond demonstration or proof: a matter which 


REFLECTIONS IN A TOWER 


223 


alarmed the senses if the idea of human agency were 
excluded. How could a piece of mechanism, now motion¬ 
less in the tower, make its brazen manifestation without 
aid? The purpose of the ring had been achieved, but 
what mysterious force had directed the solemn announce¬ 
ment which informed the sleeping household of Redways 
that the dead body of the master was within the tower? 
Had the bell actually rung without hands, by some means 
beyond human understanding? No. Luckraft rejected 
that supposition instantly. It went outside the teachings 
of experience, and sent intelligence wandering into the 
region of fantastic conjecture. The bell had been rung 
by human means, but the reason for its peal, so disturb¬ 
ing and perplexing, was difficult to imagine, or even 
faintly to guess. It was either the act of insanity or of 
deep and cautious design, for some purpose unexplained. 
Thinking thus, Luckraft was visited by a further idea. 

His meditations were intruded upon by the sound of 
footsteps rustling in the fallen leaves of the woods outside 
the tower, and perfectly audible in the intense stillness 
within. He looked through the narrow slit in the thick 
masonry, and discerned two figures walking through the 
trees in the direction of the alder pool. The tall bronzed 
man he recognized as Sir Robert Lynngarth, whom he 
had seen on his arrival at Redways. The lady with him 
Luckraft did not know, but intuition told him that she 
was the beautiful young wife of the deceased baronet, of 
whose existence Colonel Glenluce had made him aware. 
She was talking, and Sir Robert was listening, and put¬ 
ting in an occasional word. Lady Lynngarth’s face was 
pale and anxious, and it was apparent to Luckraft that 
her companion was endeavouring to reassure her. Luck¬ 
raft would have given a great deal to have been able to 
overhear them. Watching them closely, he was convinced 


224 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


that theirs was no ordinary conversation. They walked 
fast, until they reached the fringe of the woods. Here 
they stopped, and Luckraft saw Lady Lynngarth clasp 
her companion’s arm with both her hands, in a manner 
which was both confiding and fearful. In response, Sir 
Robert raised his other hand gently, then disengaged 
himself and walked away. Lady Lynngarth stood looking 
after him for a moment, then she turned in the opposite 
direction and retraced her steps through the w T ood. 

The experienced eyes of Chief Inspector Luckraft read 
a message of warning into that last gesture of her com¬ 
panion. That uplifted hand, with its implication of 
silence, kindled in his breast those man-hunting instincts 
which were his passion and career. He had no difficulty 
in arriving at the conclusion that this secret meeting in 
the wood at such a time was in some way connected with 
the death of Sir Roger. Why had his son and his widow 
gone there to speak quietly, unless they had something 
to conceal? He did not know what it meant, but he was 
determined to find out, if that were possible. This stolen 
conversation between Lady Lynngarth and her husband’s 
son invested the mystery with a more perplexing and 
mentally exhausting tint, but it also simplified matters 
by indicating to Luckraft the direction his formless sus¬ 
picions should take. 

In this mental disposition he descended from the tower 
to make his way back to the house. His path was difficult, 
but that did not weaken his determination. He reflected 
that he knew practically nothing of the circumstances 
beyond what Colonel Glenluce had imparted to him and 
Superintendent Merrington. And Dr. Drewer’s state¬ 
ment blocked the way to further official inquiry. In any 
case, Luckraft could proceed no further without the con¬ 
sent and sanction of Colonel Glenluce. Luckraft knew 


REFLECTIONS IN A TOWER 


225 


little of the political head of his department, but he did 
not suppose that he would permit a mere fishing inquiry 
into the affairs of a family with whom he was on terms 
of confidence and friendship. Luckraft was well aware 
that he had very little to go upon, and that any attempt 
on his part to make his departmental head share his own 
suspicions would, perhaps, only bring upon him a snub 
for officiousness, which, in view of all things, might not 
be altogether undeserved. A lesser man might have been 
tempted by these considerations to leave the case where it 
was. The eminent Luckraft, inspired with a passion for 
his work, desired nothing so much as to pursue his in¬ 
vestigations into Sir Roger Lynngarth’s death, if that 
course could be safely fitted into the diverse and complex 
elements of the affair. Already he felt all the zest of a 
hunter on the track of his game, but caution warned him 
that further pursuit called for the utmost wariness on 
his part. 

Cogitating thus, Luckraft had almost reached the house 
when he observed a man emerge from the buildings at the 
rear and open a gate which led into a foot-path across the 
fields. Luckraft could hardly conceal his pleasure as he 
recognized the butler of Redways in the approaching 
figure. He regarded the encounter as an unexpected but 
well-deserved piece of luck. Fortune, indifferent as a 
woman to brains, rarely favoured ability. That, at least, 
was Luckraft’s experience. The zealous officer, bestow¬ 
ing a passing glance on the butler when he first saw him, 
had summed up that excellent functionary as a coward 
with sly eyes, and had thirsted for the opportunity of 
turning him inside out. It seemed as though he was 
to be denied that operation by the unexpected progress 
of events, so this tardy reparation of fortune was the 
more welcome. He stood where he was, waiting. The 


226 ISLAND OF DESTINY 

unconscious Jauncey, coming nearer, revealed himself in 
even more unflattering aspect to the detective’s critical 
eye. He was attired in outdoor garb, and wore on his 
head a narrow hard-crowned hat which appeared much 
too small for the large flushed face which it was ordained 
to shelter. Jauncey carried a bag in his hand. Seeing 
him thus, Luckraft varied his first pleasing appellation 
by now mentally designating the butler as a fat and foxy 
simpleton. “This is into my hands,” was his additional 
unspoken thought. 

Jauncey, lifting his eyes, saw him, and came to a 
stricken pause. His large flushed face assumed a curious 
mottled tint as he moved slowly on. 

“A fine day,” observed Luckraft with a gracious nod, 
as he drew near. 

Jauncey’s unspoken reply, delivered with increasing 
pallor, was: “What do you want with me?” What he 
actually did say was: “A very fine day indeed.” 

“Going to the village?” continued Luckraft, with the 
same deceptively pleasant air. 

Jauncey admitted it with the look of a man who feared 
the answer might incriminate him. 

“On business,” he added vaguely, as though he put 
forth that plea in mitigation of the offence. 

“Ah!” Chief Inspector Luckraft smiled graciously, 
and went on, as if the idea had just occurred to him: 
“I wish to go to the village myself. Perhaps you will 
show me the way.” 

They set out across the foot-path which stretched 
diagonally across half a dozen fields to the village. 

At the end of an hour Chief Inspector Luckraft reap¬ 
peared at Redways with the satisfied air of a man who 
has not spent his time in vain. He had succeeded in 
turning the butler inside out. The task had not been 


REFLECTIONS IN A TOWER 


227 


difficult. Jauncey had proved a tractile victim—had, 
indeed, assisted in the flaying process. His natural cow¬ 
ardice and shaken nerves offered him up as a willing 
victim. He told the detective all he knew about the 
family he served. From him Luckraft learnt of the 
strange cloud overhanging Robert Lynngarth’s life; of 
his departure from England twelve years before, and his 
equally mysterious return a few weeks before his father’s 
death. Jauncey also placed the detective in possession 
of the additional piece of information, which had reached 
the servants’ ears, that Robert Lynngarth had contem¬ 
plated leaving Redways and England again on the very 
day that his father had disappeared. 

Interesting facts, these, and so Luckraft thought when 
they were imparted to him; but an even more interesting 
revelation was something which moral cowardice led 
Jauncey to impart as overheard by him on the night of 
Robert Lynngarth’s return. He told Luckraft that as 
he passed through the hall just before dinner on that 
night he saw Sir Robert and Lady Lynngarth speaking 
together at the foot of the stairs. He had caught only 
one word of that conversation, but it had made some 
impression on his mind at the time. As he approached 
on his way to the dining-room, he had distinctly heard 
Lady Lynngarth address the returned wanderer as “Jim.” 

“Perhaps Lady Lynngarth was referring to some one 
else,” Luckraft had interjected. 

No, Jauncey was quite certain Lady Lynngarth meant 
Mr. Lynngarth—now Sir Robert. Why she called him 
Jim he didn’t know. He had forgotten all about it soon 
after. 

“It only came to my mind just now when we were 
talking,” continued Jauncey, endeavouring to call up a 
look of rectitude. 


228 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


Luckraft, turning over the butler’s disclosures after¬ 
wards, came to the only possible conclusion that Robert 
Lynngarth and his father’s wife had known each other 
before, perhaps under other conditions. Jauncey had 
mentioned that the second Lady Lynngarth had lived 
abroad—had travelled, was the way he put it. But even 
assuming that, it did not explain all the component parts 
of the puzzle. What had taken Robert Lynngarth out 
of England in the first place, and what had kept him 
away so long? Again, what was the reason for the recent 
contemplated departure which had been interrupted by 
Sir Roger Lynngarth’s death? The relations between 
father and son were the reverse of cordial, according to 
Jauncey. “They did not seem to get on well together,” 
he had said. Jauncey also told Luckraft that father and 
son were shut up in the Painted Room for a long time on 
the last afternoon that Sir Roger was seen alive. Luck¬ 
raft, pondering over this, wondered whether the two had 
quarrelled. 

Chief Inspector Luckraft had the quality known to 
men as imagination. Imagination will carry a man far, 
especially when strengthened by some skill in induction 
and a faculty of trained observation. Imagination soared 
away with him now, and took him to dizzy heights. When 
he returned to earth, after the lapse of an hour or so, 
he sought an interview with Colonel Glenluce. 

That interview took place in the smoking-room at 
Redways, where Colonel Glenluce invited his renowned 
assistant to sit down, gave him a cigar, and placidly 
waited to hear what he had to say. He was far from 
expecting the bomb-shell which the Chief Inspector had 
come prepared to throw at him. Luckraft, sitting on the 
edge of an antique chair, unlighted cigar in hand, eyes 
fixed thoughtfully on his official chief’s face, launched his 


REFLECTIONS IN A TOWER 


229 


bomb without any preliminary warning of his intention. 
In a mild voice he expressed the opinion that Sir Roger 
had died in his room, but that his body had been removed 
from Redways to the abbey tower where it was found. 

“What makes you think so?” asked Glenluce quickly. 

Luckraft, ready for that question, assumed a reflective 
manner. In his reply, he appeared to choose his words 
very carefully. The idea had first occurred to him when 
examining the sequence of footprints which led across 
the lawn from the Painted Room, and then disappeared. 
Or, speaking more accurately, it was the depth of those 
footprints, and of the right foot in particular, which 
had struck him as significant. He had found it quite 
impossible to make such a deep impression with his own 
foot, although he had made several experiments in that 
direction. In trying to account for it, he had conceived 
the notion of a man carrying a weight—obviously a heavy 
weight. The idea of a dead body, as a heavy weight, 
had occurred to him as the next step in this process of 
reasoning. 

Glenluce interrupted at this stage to ask if the theory 
depended solely upon the footprints leading across the 
lawn. 

Luckraft replied, rather slowly, that he had more than 
that to go upon. He had discovered further traces of 
these footsteps just outside the tower. 

“You said nothing of this at the time, you know,” 
remarked Glenluce, looking up. 

“No,” said Chief Inspector Luckraft. “I had a 
reason-” 

“What was it?” 

“I wasn’t quite sure of what they meant. I wanted 
to give the matter more thought.” 

“I do not think you have very much to go upon.” 



230 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“Perhaps not,” replied the Chief Inspector. “So far, 
it’s merely an idea—nothing more. I thought I’d better 
tell you, though. If the body was carried away, it ex¬ 
plains several points about Sir Roger’s death which I’ve 
..not been able to understand. It would account for Sir 
Roger being found in the belfry, and for the door being 
bolted inside. And there’s that bell, now. How did that 
come to ring? That’s what I want to know. Dr. Drewer 
was going to explain it, but he wasn’t able to after all. 
If the body was carried there, one could account for the 
bell—in a way.” 

“What do you mean by that?” said Glenluce slowly. 

“I’ve been trying to work out ho\^ that bell came to 
ring. It didn’t ring itself, of that I feel sure. Well, 
suppose that there were two persons aware of Sir Roger’s 
death, and that they were both concerned in the removal 
of the body, or, at least, one removed it and the other 
knew where it was concealed. One of the two subse¬ 
quently felt remorse for what had been done, and paid a 
stealthy visit to the tower to reveal the reason for Sir 
Roger’s disappearance by ringing the bell-” 

“This sounds all very high-flown and imaginative to 
me, Chief Inspector,” interrupted Glenluce sharply. “If 
such a thing had really happened, why did this mysterious 
bell-ringer give one single pull at the bell, instead of 
ringing a vigorous peal?” 

“I’ve thought of that too, sir,” rejoined Luckraft 
cautiously. “The person ringing the bell may have had 
good reason for it—may have wished merely to inform 
Redways, and not alarm the country-side.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Well, sir, I’ve been making a few quiet inquiries, and 
I understand that Sir Robert left England under a cloud 
some years ago, and returned quite unexpectedly to find 



REFLECTIONS IN A TOWER 


231 


his mother dead and his father married again. Why he 
left England in the first place does not appear to be 
known, but his father was probably aware of the reason. 
I have been informed that Sir Roger and his son were 
alone together in the room called the Painted Room for 
a considerable time on the last afternoon that Sir Roger 
was seen alive. There seems to have been some estrange¬ 
ment between them, and they may have had words during 
this interview. What took place then? Nobody knows.” 

Glenluce heard this in perfect silence. He now spoke 
concisely: 

“Are you suggesting that Sir Robert carried his 
father’s body away from the house to the tower where 
it was found?” he asked coldly. 

“No, sir; I would not go that far. But I do believe 
the body was carried away, and further inquiry might 
bring the facts to light.” 

“What purpose do you suggest would inspire such a 
perfectly senseless outrage?” 

“As to that, sir, I have pointed out-” 

“It seems to me that you have been letting your imagi¬ 
nation run away with you.” 

“Well, I have been merely endeavouring to do my duty. 
I have made certain inquiries-” 

“For which there was no need, Luckraft. As Sir Roger 
died naturally, there was not the slightest occasion for 
these investigations on your part. You have exceeded 
your duty—very improperly so, in my opinion.” 

Indignation ran high within Luckraft at this rebuke. 
As if he did not know his duty! He wished now that he 
had said nothing at all. When he spoke, it was in an 
impassive voice: 

“I thought I would tell you what was in my mind, sir, 
in case you might think the case needed further inquiry. 




232 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


And with this perfectly truthful statement of his mo¬ 
tives Luckraft waited anxiously for Glenluce’s reply. 
That came without delay: 

“I see no occasion for further inquiry. In any case, 
that is now the province of the coroner, and I shall do 
nothing to influence his judgment. Dr. Drewer will write 
to him, telling him the facts, and expressing the opinion 
that Sir Roger’s death is due to natural causes. Dr. 
Drewer will add that he sees no necessity for an inquest. 
So do not give yourself any further trouble, Luckraft.” 

“Very well, sir,” murmured Luckraft, rising as he spoke. 
“I shall return to London.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE MOTILITY OF DEATH 

G LENLUCE did not repent that decision, then or 
afterwards, and indeed, he had no cause. Of what 
use to stir up those uneasy phantoms into life; to 
ferret out this hidden scandal of a family which counted 
him as friend? It was not as though any good purpose 
could be served, or that action was required of him for 
the vindication of his official position. If Robert Lynn- 
garth had actually carried his father’s body from the 
house that night, his offence was more in the nature of a 
misdemeanour than a conspiracy to defeat justice, be¬ 
cause if he told the truth he ran the risk of bringing 
his own secret to light. Apparently that secret, whatever 
it was, was fraught with dire result to himself, if revealed 
—a thing of tremendous consequence. Every action of 
his life was directed to safeguarding it. Because of it he 
had gone abroad, and remained away for twelve years. 
And finally it compelled him to remove his father’s body 
and take a letter from his bureau rather than let the 
world know what had taken place in the study that night. 
A fatal secret to possess! Glenluce was glad—more glad 
than ever—that he knew nothing of it. The knowledge 
might have made his path more difficult. 

He had weighed these matters among others before 
making his decision. He even asked himself whether there 
was anything in the suggestion which Lady Mercer had 
with belated regret termed an unwarrantable surmise on 
her part. Glenluce found himself watching Stella and 

Robert, though he did not like doing so, in order to 

233 


234 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


gather whether anything in their attitude might provide 
a better key to the puzzle of the hidden events in the 
Painted Room on the night that Sir Roger met his death. 
But he saw nothing. They appeared rather to avoid each 
other than feel the force of a mutual attraction. Stella, 
distressed but beautiful, seemed to depend on Glenluce 
during those trying days rather than on her husband’s 
son. Glenluce was conscious of her looking at him rather 
often, as though she knew that his sympathy, though 
unobtrusive, was always there. He was glad of that, 
because he wanted to help her as far as lay in his power. 
Sometimes he met her eyes looking into his with a wistful 
appeal, and he would smile gently back, with an air of 
sympathetic understanding. She had other symptoms of 
grief which Glenluce flattered himself he understood. A 
beautiful young widow! What were her thoughts ? Some 
day, no doubt, she would marry again. Why had Lady 
Mercer spoken so unkindly of Lady Lynngarth? Because 
she had a wistful, appealing glance? His eyes, dwelling 
upon her beauty, saw the explanation in that. So far 
as observation went, Robert had few thoughts to bestow 
upon his father’s young widow. A baseless insinuation, 
this! There was such a thing as painting the devil too 
black. Robert had much upon his conscience to answer 
for, but not this. His load was heavy enough as it was. 
And yet, in spite of all, Glenluce believed him to be a 
profoundly unhappy man rather than a wicked one. 

Glenluce had plenty of opportunity to observe Robert 
in the interval between the death and the funeral. But 
knowledge did not come with scrutiny; he remained a 
mystifying figure. They met from day to day. Glenluce 
tried to talk with him, but the younger man did not 
respond. He was courteous, but distant, living in the 
family circle a life which seemed to Glenluce almost as 


THE MOTILITY OF DEATH 


235 


solitary and remote as his former island existence. He 
dined with the family, but spent much of his time alone. 
After dinner he took himself off to the Painted Room, 
where he sat far into the night, reading or writing per¬ 
haps. No matter how late Glenluce retired, there was 
always a light glimmering beneath the door at the end of 
the long corridor. His father’s body had been removed 
to another part of the house to await burial, and Robert 
Lynngarth made the two rooms his own. Glenluce and 
Stonnard had the smoking-room and the billiard-room 
to themselves. Stonnard was relieved that this was so. 
The secretary was nervous in the presence of his departed 
employer’s son, and once, over a final whisky-and-soda 
in the smoking-room, he confessed to Glenluce why. 

“A queer chap, I think—like a figure in a dream. Very 
different from Sir Roger. There’s something in his eyes 
which haunts one, don’t you know. . . .” 

It was a definition leaving little to be desired, Glenluce 
felt. Robert Lynngarth was haunted by the ghost of his 
past—invisible to other eyes, but ever before his own—a 
grisly familiar which accompanied him by day and shared 
his couch at night. Chained to that constant companion, 
life held nothing for him. In spite of all he believed 
Robert had done, the heart in Glenluce’s breast stirred 
with pity at the thought of what this man had gone 
through. Suffering and anguish he had endured, and 
must still endure. His eyes were haunted, as Stonnard 
expressed it. Even the Roman law might well be satisfied 
with the unflinching acceptance of such a burden of pain 
through long years. 

What did the future hold for him? Nothing, as far 
as Glenluce could see. His father’s death had not light¬ 
ened the burden he was compelled to bear; if, indeed, it 
had not added to it. His face gave no hint of the inward 


236 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


current of his thoughts, but there was in his air, very 
faintly defined, a kind of cold resignation which touched 
Glenluce by suggesting a man standing on the brink of 
an abyss across which no friendly hand might be stretched 
in aid. That w T as an apt comparison. Help was impos¬ 
sible for a man in Robert Lynngarth’s position. Glenluce 
realized it, but the wish to help him remained. 

The day came for the funeral and the reading of the 
will. The churchyard was thronged with the best of the 
county, and many curious glances were directed at Rob¬ 
ert, standing a little apart, as motionless as the other 
figure in the coffin. “That’s the son—disappeared for 
twelve years, and just turned up again. They say he 
and his father quarrelled.” Thus whispered gossip, cen¬ 
sorious even at the graveside. But Robert, at that mo¬ 
ment, seemed as indifferent to criticism—even if he had 
heard it—as his father was for evermore. 

Afterwards the will was read in the library before the 
ladies of the household and Robert and Glenluce. Lady 
Mercer sat in a straight-backed chair, glasses up, Kath¬ 
leen and Stella beside her; Kathleen, sweet and calm, 
casting occasional glances towards Robert opposite, and 
Stella, fragile and pale, with downcast gaze, looking like 
a white and gold lily in her black dress—such was Glen- 
luce’s comparison as his eye fell upon her. The will bore 
the date of more than two years before, shortly after 
Sir Roger’s second marriage. If he had wished to alter 
it, he had not done so, though the letter calling Mr. Baron 
to Redways reposed in the solicitor’s pocket as he an¬ 
nounced the clauses of the will in existence. It left the 
bulk of the testator’s fortune to his second wife, together 
with the family residence known as Redways, “provided 
proof is forthcoming of the death of my only son, Rob¬ 
ert.” In event of Stella’s remarriage, Redways w T as to 


THE MOTILITY OF DEATH 


237 


be held in trust for Kathleen until she reached the age 
of twenty-five. Apart from that contingency, Kathleen 
■was left two thousand a year, to be settled upon her 
and her married issue, if any; failing that, to be at her 
own disposal unconditionally. 

Mr. Baron, untying more documents, produced a codicil 
drawn up shortly after Robert Lynngarth’s return, alter¬ 
ing the provision about Redways, “because of the unex¬ 
pected appearance of my son Robert, who inherits the 
entailed portion of the estate with the title.” Other¬ 
wise the contents of the will remained unaltered. Robert’s 
existence was grudgingly allowed for, and he w T as to re¬ 
ceive what he was entitled to under the entail: no more. 
The bulk of the fortune went to Stella. Glenluce saw 
Robert fix his eyes upon Stella when this was made clear. 
He did not understand the look, but it did not seem one 
of resentment. 

Lady Mercer had her own opinion of all this, and 
expressed it freely, not then, but afterwards to Glenluce, 
w T hen she got him alone. She thought the will a very 
improper one. 

“It’s quite ridiculous of Roger,” she said peevishly, 
“carrying his absurd prejudices and pride of caste into 
the grave with him. What’s to be done now, I’d like 
to know? Robert cannot keep up Redways on the entail. 
The estate doesn’t yield much nowadays. Yet Roger 
was devoted to the place, like all the Lynngarths, and 
lavished money on it. What did he think was to happen 
to it, I wonder ? Kathleen wants to give Robert her two 
thousand a year: says she has no claim on it, and won’t 
take it. Bless the child! She’s talking nonsense of 
course. Robert is not the man to take it from her, even 
if she could give it to him, which of course she cannot. 
I’ve been trying to make her understand that. In any 


238 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


case, none of us know what Robert is going to do-” 

She broke off sharply, and looked at him with sagacious 
eyes. 

“Do you remember the talk that we had together on 
the day after poor Roger’s death?” 

“Yes,” he said, wondering what was coming. 

“I said then that I wondered if Robert would remain 
in England now.” 

He looked at her inquiringly. “Will he not?” he asked. 

“I am afraid he meditates going away again.” 

“Has he told you so?” 

“Not in so many words. He gave me an indication 
though, at the breakfast-table this morning. I was asking 
him if he was going to thin the elms at the side of the 
house, as poor Roger had intended doing, and he said 
that would fall to some one else to decide—not him. He 
walked away without another word.” 

“His words may not have meant what you think. Y r ou 
may be putting a wrong interpretation upon them.” He 
spoke soothingly. 

“I wish I could think so,” she sighed. “It would be 
madness—folly—for him to go away again, now that his 
father is dead, and there is no one to take his place but 
Robert. The question of money could be arranged. I 
have far more than I need, and I love Redways. Still, 
I feel these thoughts are useless. He will go away again.” 

“Not for long, I hope.” 

“That is what I fear. As I told you, the reason ’which 
took him out of England before still exists. He has said 
nothing definite yet, but I think we ought to know. 
Would you mind seeing him, Colonel Glenluce, before you 
go back to London, and ask him what he intends to 
do?” 

“Wouldn’t that come with better grace from you?” 



THE MOTILITY OF DEATH 239 

he ashed. “You are a member of the family, and I am 
not.” 

“It’s beyond me. Robert is difficult. You could talk 
to him in a way that I couldn’t. He. will listen to you.” 

“I’m not sure of that, but I’m willing to try, if you 
think it is likely to do any good. Where is he?” 

“In the smoking-room, I think.” 

“I will go there and see.” 

“Thank you,” she said gratefully, as he left her. 

Robert was not in the smoking-room. The sole occu¬ 
pant was Dr. Reginald Drewer, who had attended the 
funeral, and was now in a large chair, cigar in mouth, 
seated well back from an early fire which cast a flickering 
glow on his glossy beard and handsome face. At Glen- 
luce’s entry he looked up and nodded. 

“Can you sit down for a few minutes?” he said. “I 
have been waiting to see you.” 

“I was looking for Robert,” rejoined Glenluce, taking 
a seat. 

“I wanted to tell you my opinion about the ringing 
of the abbey bell. I thought you would like to know.” 

Glenluce looked at him keenly. “That’s interesting,” 
he said. “Do you think you know how it happened?” 
he asked, point-blank. 

“Yes, I’ll tell you confidentially. It’s strange, and 
borders on the weird: not at all advisable for other people 
to know. Yes, I should think it had better be confidential 
between us.” Uttering these words, Dr. Drewer moved 
his chair closer to Glenluce. “After all, it’s only my 
belief—my theory. It could be proved, perhaps, but 
better not—much better not. There are some things 
better left unproved, and I think you’ll agree with me 
that this is one of them. The bell rang, though. It was 
not imagination on Miss Chester’s part.” 


240 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“I never thought so,” said Glenluce. 

“No; there is an explanation. Do you remember the 
experiment I made with the rope in the tower that day 
—pulling; it down to see if the bell rang when it was 
let go?” 

Yes, Glenluce remembered that very well. 

“It was the single peal which puzzled me, and made 
me think of a bird. An owl, perhaps, blundering against 
the clapper of the bell in flight. That would have sufficed 
for the single faint peal heard. I never for one moment 
thought that the bell had been rung naturally—that is, 
by human hands. There was no reason to suppose it: 
all the conditions and circumstances were against it. 
What being was likely to have gone to the abbey after 
midnight, clamber in and out of a small window to find 
Sir Roger’s body, and then notify the discovery by ring¬ 
ing one faint stroke on a disused bell, instead of coming 
to Redways and arousing the household? Sanity and 
common sense alike forbade such a supposition. No; the 
explanation must be a natural one, if one could only 
find it: something quite simple yet convincing, as the 
explanation of all such mysteries usually is. If not a 
bird, then lightning or wind—even wireless. The bell 
had rung, but not through human agency. So ran my 
thoughts. I was wrong.” 

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Glenluce. 

“Not what you think,” was the quick response. “The 
bell was not rung by the intrusion of some mysterious 
human visitant, nevertheless-” 

He broke off and looked gloomily in the fire before 
adding: 

“I suppose you have never been interested in the phe¬ 
nomenon of death?” 



THE MOTILITY OF DEATH 241 

“Not scientifically, if that is what you mean,” said 
Glenluce, in some surprise. 

The other’s nod indicated that such was his meaning. 
After a pause he went on: 

“I call it a phenomenon, which it is; or, rather, the 
cessation of life is. Throughout my career and during 
my college days, I have always been greatly interested 
in the causes of death, and in the analysis of those obscure 
diseases which develop secretly in the human body. I 
have pursued investigations in these subjects both at 
home and abroad. It is not a popular thesis, as I am 
well aware, but it is a study which has its distinct uses 
for humanity at large. When we understand death better 
we shall not fear it so much.” 

“All this is no doubt true,” observed Glenluce mildly, 
“but-” 

“Wait!” exclaimed Dr. Drewer significantly. “You’ll 
see presently. We go through life with many fallacies, 
which exist even regarding the end of it. Did you ever 
see an actor die convincingly on the stage, with dropped 
jaw? I never did. Yet the jaw drops at the moment 
of death, or shortly after, except in tetanus and some 
cases of poisoning. There is also much nonsense talked 
about the last breath, and the stoppage of the heart— 
by no means infallible signs. In fact, there is no end to 
the number of common errors concerning death, with the 
result that many people go through existence—and pass 
out of it—tormented with the fear of premature burial. 
But the most widespread error is that all activity stops 
instantly with the cessation of life.” 

“I certainly thought so,” remarked Glenluce. 

Dr. Drewer looked at him, and added abruptly: 

“Have you ever watched a corpse at night?” 




242 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“No,” said Glenluce, with a shudder. 

“If you had you would know differently. I have. 
There is such a thing as cadaveric activity—movements 
in the muscles of the face and hands. I have observed 
them; carried out experiments. In the interests of 
science, of course. This is merely by way of preamble. 
What I want to make clear is that my investigation of 
this subject has led me to study closely not only the signs 
of death but subsequent symptoms of independent activity 
in the tissues of the body which may be termed cadaveric 
phenomena.” 

“I understand,” said Glenluce, repressing a slight 
qualm. 

“The most interesting of these is the phenomenon 
known as rigidity,” continued Dr. Drewer briskly. “I 
have observed some extraordinary cases of muscular con¬ 
traction in this state—quite remarkable indeed. Rigor 
mortis varies in intensity and duration, but on an average 
makes its appearance by the sixth hour after death. 
When Sir Roger was brought back to the house rigidity 
had passed away; there was certainly no sign of it when 
I examined the body some hours later. It is necessary 
to bear that in mind when listening to what I am about 
to tell you. It was that fact which gave me the first 
glimmering of the truth. When I accompanied you to 
the tower that day my first idea was that Sir Roger, in 
dying, had fallen on the rope, dragging it taut, and that 
as rigidity set in the contraction of muscles altered the 
posture of his body sufficiently to allow the rope to escape, 
thus causing the faint clang which was heard by Miss 
Chester.” 

“I can understand that,” said Glenluce quickly. “Do 
you think, then-” 

“No,” interrupted the doctor solemnly. “That was 




THE MOTILITY OF DEATH 


243 


not the way. It was stranger still. After you had de¬ 
scribed to me the position in which you found the body, 
I no longer thought that idea so probable, though it was 
not impossible. The real explanation came to me two 
or three nights later. Do you remember defining to me 
how you found the body, lying face uppermost, right 
under the belfry, with the rope drooping on the breast? 
Thinking over that, the true explanation came to me quite 
simply. It was the key to the solution, as it were. It 
explained the ringing of the bell. It explained, also, that 
rigor mortis passed away at the moment when Miss Kath¬ 
leen Chester heard the faint peal of the bell in her room. 
Now, do you understand?” 

“Why, no, I cannot say I do,” said Glenluce slowly. 

“Because it was Sir Roger’s hand which caused the 
bell to ring. His fingers had been clutching the rope, 
and when they dropped away the bell gave the one stroke 
which reached Miss Chester’s ears.” 

“You must be more explicit,” Glenluce said, assuming 
a coolness he by no means felt. 

“My meaning is very simple. Sir Roger was found 
dead under the rope, which lay on his breast. As 
rigidity invaded his body the right arm flexed across 
the breast, and the fingers, contracting across the rope, 
clutched it automatically, and the muscular contraction 
of the arm muscles tightened it. Thus the rope remained 
until rigor mortis passed away, when the arm unbent 
again, and the fingers relaxed, releasing the rope and 
causing the bell to give the single peal heard by Miss 
Chester.” 

“Your explanation is wonderful, but seems incredible,” 
said Glenluce. 

“On the contrary, it is so possible that I’m surprised 
the explanation did not occur to me sooner,” observed 


244 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


the doctor. “The attitude of the body, and the position 
of the rope across the breast, makes it quite a simple 
thing, though strange enough to you, no doubt.” 

“But Sir Roger’s arms were resting by his side when 
we found him.” 

“That was because rigidity had passed away, and with 
it the contraction of the muscles, so the arm returned to 
its former position. Here is confirmatory proof of what 
I say.” From a pocket-book he extracted a small packet, 
which he unfolded. “Do you see that? It’s a thread 
of woven fabric: hemp, from the rope. I found it between 
the first and second fingers of Sir Roger’s right hand, 
when I was examining the body.” 

Glenluce looked at the woven fragments without speak- 
ing. 

“That’s the explanation, you may depend upon it,” 
said the doctor, nodding at him. “Nothing simpler, 
when you come to think of it. I’ll demonstrate it, if 
ever I have a favourable opportunity. Quite in my way 
too. Investigation of this sort is my passion—my hobby. 
If I ever get the chance of carrying out this experiment 
under favourable conditions I’ll let you know. Well, 
good-bye, Glenluce. I’ve patients waiting for me, but 
I’m glad to have been able to see you and explain this 
baffling ring.” 

They shook hands, and Dr. Drewer went out with a 
smiling face, handsome, portly, capable. Glenluce was 
glad to see him depart. The doctor had waited to oblige 
him, but his story was as repugnant to Glenluce as the 
coldly scientific way in which his theory had been ex¬ 
plained. 

Was this, then, the explanation of the ringing of the 
bell? Dr. Drewer thought so, and he ought to know. 
He was a man who, in his own phrase, made a hobby of 


THE MOTILITY OF DEATH 


245 


such things. A repellent hobby, truly! He had hinted 
at demonstrating the truth of his idea, but Glenluce 
desired no such ghastly tests. The story had told upon 
his nerves, as it was. For the rest, he was content to 
accept Drewer’s theory as the solution of the mystery 
of the bell, and so he finally dismissed the subject from 
his mind. 

He was about to leave the room when Robert entered. 
Glenluce, regarding him kindly, spoke: 

“I am going back to London this evening. Can you 
spare me a few minutes’ conversation before I go?” 

Robert gave him a quick glance which it was difficult 
to define, but answered coldly: 

“Certainly.” And, closing the door behind him, he 
sat down. 


CHAPTER XXV 


IN DEEPENING SHADOW 

T HE memory of that interview remained with Glen- 
luce, deepening his pity for Robert Lynngarth and 
his future. He learnt things which were wrung 
from a heavy heart; a scanty confidence which revealed 
little, yet sought to justify an inexplicable line of con¬ 
duct in friendly eyes. It may have been that beaconing 
light which led him to say what he did, as though his 
soul yearned for sympathy while compelled to remain in¬ 
scrutable. At first, Glenluce had little hope they would 
progress that far. Robert was very guarded, and his 
monosyllabic replies brought them no nearer to the sub¬ 
ject in the elder man’s mind. Glenluce was too vague 
and nebulous; his remarks too carefully framed. That 
would not do, and he saw it. So he came to the root 
of the matter with a plain and unequivocal question which 
could not be ignored. 

“I have something to say to you about yourself, Rob¬ 
ert.” 

The other, who had been striding up and down the 
room as though his perturbed spirit would not let him 
rest, turned an embarrassed glance towards his com¬ 
panion. 

“Yes; what is it?” he said. 

“I really have no right to question you”—Glenluce 
spoke with hesitation—“no right, that is, except being a 
friend of the family. You will understand that, I hope, 
and not take offence-” 


246 



IN DEEPENING SHADOW 247 

“I understand,” said Robert. He took a chair, and 
fixed his eyes upon his companion’s face. 

“You are remaining in England, I suppose, now that 
your father is dead?” 

“Why do you ask me that now?” replied Robert, 
quietly enough; but Glenluce had the curious impression 
that he spoke in a tone of relief. 

“Some plans were formed before your father’s death, 
plans which would have taken you out of England again,” 
he went on. “You told me of them after your father’s 
disappearance, that night in the smoking-room, if you 
remember. Afterwards, Stonnard told me a little more. 
Some mining expedition abroad, I understand.” 

“Yes. It was my father’s wish that I should develop 
this mine—my own wish also, I may say.” 

“I presume that these plans have been changed by 
your father’s sad death.” 

“No—merely deferred. Now that matters have been 
adjusted, I think of leaving England again very shortly.” 

“To return again before long, I hope?” 

“I think not. It is my intention to remain abroad.” 

He spoke composedly, as if there was nothing beneath 
the surface of his words; but Glenluce knew there were 
hidden deeps. He was moved to ask impulsively: 

“Is this necessary?” 

“I think so.” The answer was cold and distant. 

“Your decision will cause a great deal of comment, 
now that you are Sir Robert Lynngarth.” 

Robert shrugged his shoulders indifferently, but re¬ 
mained silent. 

“I am well aware of your indifference to that sort of 
thing. I have not forgotten our conversation on the 
night of your return. But the position is changed, since 
then—changed by your father’s death.” 



248 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“In what respect?” 

“You have duties to perform. You are an English¬ 
man, and the word means something to you. You are 
the last of your line, and the bearer of an honourable 
name. You should stay in England.” 

“For what purpose?” 

Glenluce met his glance candidly. He had sought this 
turn in the conversation, and he pursued it deliberately: 

“Because it is your duty to settle down at Redways, 
marry, and have a family.” 

“Such things are not for me.” 

His voice was colder than ever, but Glenluce was not 
deceived. 

“Is there some reason—some insurmountable reason— 
which compels you to leave England?” he slowly asked. 

“I fancy you know that there is—that my father told 
you.” 

“He hinted at some early embarrassment—nothing 
else.” 

“I can tell you no more than that.” 

Glenluce hesitated, then leaned a little towards him. 
“If I could help—if there is anything I could do, as your 
father’s friend-” 

“Thank you, but you can do nothing.” 

“I am sorry.” 

“It is not worth your while. Pity is wasted on me, 
I assure you.” <. 

“I was not thinking of pity when I offered my help, 
but of something more practical. Such assistance as 
would enable you to remain in England.” 

“I repeat—that is impossible.” 

Glenluce hesitated. “You mean that the cause which 
took you away from England twelve years ago now com¬ 
pels you to go away again?” 



IN DEEPENING SHADOW 


249 


Robert also paused before replying. “Yes,” he said, 
“that is so.” He went on, speaking slowly, weighing 
every word: “Do not think that I am ungrateful. I 
would accept your offer if I could. I would even confide 
in you, if that were possible. But I can do neither the 
one nor the other. I must bear this burden alone, and 
because of it I shall have to leave England again.” 

“Are you sure you are not taking an exaggerated 
view ?” persisted Glenluce. “Twelve years is a long while 
ago, remember. It may be-” 

Robert broke in with a laugh which was without mirth. 
“An exaggerated view! I wish I were. Do you suppose 
I would have led my life of the last twelve years without 
some very urgent reason—the life of a man under a cloud, 
a man without a name, wandering up and down the un¬ 
known places of the earth? It was chance, mingled with 
sentiment, which brought me back to England, but I see 
clearly enough now that I should not have returned, 
and that for more reasons than one. The matter to 
which you have referred is something which affects 
others as well as myself. More than that I cannot tell 
you.” 

“Your father wanted to confide it to me on the day 
of your return,” said Glenluce, looking at him attentively. 
“I gathered from him the wrong impression that it was 
something which concerned your two selves alone. Con¬ 
sequently, when your father died-” 

“My father did not know all, so he could not have 
told you,” interposed Robert Lynngarth quickly. “He 
received an anonymous letter which alarmed him greatly, 
and he sent for me to come to Redways from London. 
He showed me the letter. It was true as far as it went, 
and it had a bearing on the other—the deeper thing. I 
told him a little more—not all by any means—but enough 





250 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


to convince him that it was advisable for me to leave 
England without delay.” 

“And remain away?” Glenluce asked quickly. 

“Yes.” * 

“It must be something of tremendous importance to 
wreck your life all these years, and take you away again 
when the future offers such fair prospects. Are you sure 
it is now more than a torturing memory? Do not think 
I am curious. My one desire, as I have already told you, 
is to help you if possible. Is there no other way out 
but this? Consider, consider well, before you decide that 
you must go away again.” 

“I have considered, and I tell you it is useless. Colonel 
Glenluce, cannot you conceive of a man being in a posi¬ 
tion which seals his lips for ever?” 

“Not at the cost of his whole life and career. It strikes 
me that you are taking too quixotic a view of your 
dilemma, whatever it is. Nothing can justify a man 
sacrificing himself for an idea.” 

“Not when that idea is honour?” 

“It is possible to rate even honour too dearly. You 
are not an ordinary man, remember. You have duties 
to fulfil—obligations to your house. You are the last 
of the Lynngarths. Do you intend to sacrifice duty to 
honour?” 

“As it happens, I must. I cannot reveal the story to 
you, but if I could you would see that I have no option.” 

“I speak in ignorance of the facts—that is true,” 
Glenluce agreed. “But even if I were aware of them I 
do not think they would cause me to alter my opinion.” 

“You say so because you do not know what they are,” 
Robert rejoined. “I will go a little further. Suppose 
I were to tell you that any revelation would be dangerous 
to myself, what would you say then?” 


IN DEEPENING SHADOW 


251 


“It is apparent, of course, that you are personally 
involved. You would not have left England otherwise. 
In my view, something which happened so long ago might 
well have been buried in oblivion, unless it involved the 
commission of some act which endangered more than your 
reputation. I speak frankly. Your attitude after this 
lapse of time suggests that this trouble of yours carries 
with it consequences which threaten you after all these 
years. Is that so?” 

“Yes. I share the guilt; the responsibility: sufficient 
to compel me to carry this burden. I tell you this, Glen- 
luce, because I trust you, and because I am grateful to 
you for the offer of your help. If it had been possible, 
I would have accepted it. As that cannot be, I do not 
want you to be under any misapprehension about myself. 
Believe me when I tell you that I am a man beyond help 
I should never have resuscitated myself and restored 
Robert Lynngarth to life. But my mother’s letter, reach¬ 
ing me on the island in that strange way, rent my inmost 
soul, overwhelmed me, and brought me back. I thought 
her tears and prayers had perhaps saved me: that her 
letter, reaching me so, had been mysteriously directed to 
that lonely island to draw me back. In a word, I hoped 
—I, who had no right to hope! I was wrong, as it turned 
out, yet I had reason for believing myself right. I could 
not, I do not now believe that her letter reached me 
wholly by chance. Conceive of its effect upon my mind, 
this letter coming to me on that island where I lived alone 
—addressed to Robert Lynngarth, dead, and buried, 
years before!” 

He paused, sighed, and continued: 

“I mean that, mean it literally. Robert Lynngarth 
died on the battlefield, and his death is so recorded. I 
will tell you. I went to the war in the first year, enlist- 


252 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


ing in one of the Dominions, joining a regiment marked 
for Eastern service. On the way there in the troop-ship 
I got friendly with another volunteer named James Ray¬ 
mond. Our mutual loneliness and unsociability threw us 
together, in a sense, on board that great ship. I suppose 
we recognized in each other kindred spirits, both under 
a cloud, forgotten and overlooked, and we sought to 
lessen our loneliness by talking to each other. Of course 
we did not tell each other much—there were tacit reserva¬ 
tions in our intimacy, if it could be called such—but we 
understood one another very well, without much speech. 
James Raymond came from England too, which was an¬ 
other bond between us. He was a profoundly unhappy 
man, who went to the war in the hope of getting killed. 
In that hope he was successful.” 

Glenluce, listening to this, wondered if Robert Lynn- 
garth had gone to the w r ar with the same ambition. The 
other went on. 

“On the morning he was killed we exchanged identifica¬ 
tion discs before going over the top. There was no motive 
behind it. Discs were frequently exchanged by men be¬ 
fore the fighting commenced: exchanged in bravado, in 
inarticulate protest against the folly of it all, and the 
incredibly stupid officialism and red-tape which brooded 
like an incubus over the whole ghastly business of slaugh¬ 
tering men in the mass for no conceivable end. What 
did it matter about identification discs when a hundred 
mutilated corpses were flung into one grave? That was 
the feeling—a kind of tragic idea of equalizing things: 
of carrying the tangle into the jaws of death itself, as 
it were. I think that was the thought in our minds too. 
Be that as it may, James Raymond was killed that fine 
morning, falling face downward in a cloud of dust and 
smoke as the first shots rang out—smashed up, with half 


IN DEEPENING SHADOW 


253 


a dozen others, by the first Turkish shell. There was 
my identification disc on him, so they buried him Robert 
Lynngarth. Ah, well. . . . He had no friends, not a 
relation in the wide world, he told me, so I took his name. 
He had no further use for it. He was a generous fellow, 
and would have given it to me gladly. I returned in the 
Dominion troop-ship, after an attack of fever, as James 
Raymond. That was easily managed. It is not difficult 
to deceive the official mind. We were numbers, not men, 
and nobody cared in the least. So I returned, and read 
newspaper accounts of Robert Lynngarth’s gallantry- 
brave acts in the field, they were called. They did not 
bother about me of course. It was just a story, and 
filled up a little newspaper space. No one cared about 
the man James Raymond, alive or dead. That is how 
his name became my heritage. I used it and was known 
by it—kept it for years until I received the letter on 
the island which led me to resurrect Robert Lynngarth, 
supposed to be buried at Gallipoli.” 

He paused, then went on: 

“I shall go away, and resume the name of James Ray¬ 
mond. It is better for all that Robert Lynngarth should 
cease to exist. That name is a menace to myself—and 
others.” 

“Not to return?” 

“Never; unless something incredible happens.” 

Glenluce attempted no further persuasion. The de¬ 
cision had been made irrevocably, and nothing could alter 
it. He saw that. 

“I wish it could be otherwise,” he said with genuine 
sympathy in his voice. “If ever anything happens to 
change your determination, and if I can do anything to 
help you, you must let me know.” 

“I promise that,” said Robert with a faint smile. 


254 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


But as they shook hands Glenluce had the feeling that 
the younger man believed that time would never come 
to pass. 

They left the room together. Robert turned down the 
corridor to the library, and Glenluce retraced his steps 
to the hall. There Lady Mercer was awaiting him. She 
looked up quickly, and her lips framed one word: 

“Well?” 

He shook his head. “You were right,” he said simply. 
“Robert is not going to remain in England. He is leaving 
very shortly.” 

“Did he give his reason?” 

“It is the old one. He did not say what it was.” 

“I feared this.” She sighed. “He goes for good, then 
—to vanish completely. Is that so?” 

“Yes; unless something incredible happens. Those 
were his words.” 

“I wonder what that means?” she mused. “It is all 
very sad. Roger dead, and Robert disappearing abroad 
again under a cloud. So ends the house of Lynngarth! 

I had hoped, yes, I had hoped-” The opening of the 

door interrupted her. Kathleen appeared on the thresh¬ 
old, and Lady Mercer beckoned to her. “I have told her,” 
she said, aside, to Glenluce, before the girl reached them. 
She turned to Kathleen. “What I feared is true, dear. 
Robert has just informed Colonel Glenluce that he is 
going away again.” 

Kathleen turned her head quickly, but not before Glen¬ 
luce had seen the glitter of tears in her dark eyes. When 
she spoke her voice was calm and steady: 

“Can nothing be done to keep him here?” 

“I am afraid not,” said Glenluce. 

There was silence until Glenluce spoke again. 



IN DEEPENING SHADOW 255 

“It is time for my departure. I must return to Lon¬ 
don.” 

“You will come again soon?” asked Lady Mercer. 

He hesitated a little. “Yes,” he said, “I will, if Lady 
Lynngarth wishes.” 

“You must, if only to protect us—three women in this 
great house.” Lady Mercer essayed a laugh, but her 
voice broke. 

Glenluce left the room to prepare for his journey, 
which did not take him long. When he came downstairs 
Lady Mercer and Kathleen were waiting to say good-bye 
to him. Stella was not there. She had sent down a 
message. She had a headache, and would Colonel Glen¬ 
luce excuse her? He was a little hurt, but thought he 
understood. 

“Good-bye; remember your promise,” were Lady Mer¬ 
cer’s last words to him as he stepped into the car which 
was to take him to the station. 

The air of disquiet which hovered over Redways was 
manifest to him at that moment in the gathering dark¬ 
ness : a house of unrest, in truth, now, with three unhappy 
people in it. Four unhappy people really, but Lady 
Mercer was old, and happiness was not the heritage of 
the aged. Was this the end for Robert Lynngarth, that 
strange inscrutable figure whose eyes had met his with 
such a proud yet lonely glance? He did not know— 
who could say what pitiless fate held in store for any 
man? At that moment Glenluce divined things hitherto 
hidden from him: read certain signs aright, at the last. 
Intuitively he guessed part of the truth. Two women 
loved Robert Lynngarth—Kathleen and Stella. Kath¬ 
leen’s was a girl’s innocent love, but it carried no message 
of hope to Robert Lynngarth’s heart, even if he guessed 


256 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


at its existence. Of Stella’s feelings Glenluce did not 
care to think. It came to him then, though he was never 
aware how, that she and Robert Lynngarth had some¬ 
thing in common between them of which he knew nothing 
at all. But this tie—again he intuitively realized it— 
counted for far less in Robert’s life than the black mys¬ 
tery which had wrecked his career so many years ago. 
Sin or secret, what did it matter which, when the man 
who carried it was compelled to wander homeless through 
the world like a disembodied spirit, unhappy himself, and 
leaving unhappiness in his wake? 

He glanced back once more. A fugitive gleam of sun¬ 
light, creeping along the ivied front, shone upon one of 
the deep-set windows and a woman’s face looking wist¬ 
fully down, but not at him. It was Stella, white and 
ethereal in the gloaming. A loosened tentacle of ivy 
outside lashed the pane in the wind, as though trying to 
scourge her. Then a bend in the carriage-drive hid her 
and the house from Glenluce’s view. 



CHAPTER XXVI 


LUCKRAFT REVISITS REDWAYS 

I T was some nights afterwards when a maid bore a 
card on a silver salver to Robert in the Painted 
Room. He started slightly at the name, and glanced 
mechanically at his watch, which confirmed the lateness 
of the hour. 

“Show him in here,” he said. 

A moment later the girl returned with Luckraft. Rob¬ 
ert nodded coldly, and pointed to a chair. Luckraft 
waited until the servant had left them, and then said: 

“I am sorry to disturb you so late, Sir Robert, but 
my business is both urgent and important.” 

“You come from Colonel Glenluce, I presume?” asked 
Robert. 

“No; on my own account,” was the response. 

Robert raised his eyebrows slightly. His glance rested 
on his visitor and took in his appearance: his pale com¬ 
plexion, compressed lips, and cold, colourless eyes which 
conveyed an impression of seeing without looking. At 
the present moment that glance seemed dim and im¬ 
personal, but something warned Robert to be careful dur¬ 
ing the coming interview. 

“If this call has anything to do with your recent official 
visit here-” 

“Concerning your father’s death?” broke in Luckraft. 

“Yes and no. A coincidental bearing, let us say. It 

affects yourself, though, more particularly.” 

Robert felt himself turning pale, and looked at his 

caller with a deeper mistrust. 

257 



258 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“Something affecting me?” He spoke with dry lips. 
“Perhaps you will explain yourself.” 

“Yes; I will do so.” Luckraft stole a quick glance 
at Robert’s face, then his eyes rested on the bureau again. 
“What I am about to tell you is in complete confidence 
between us. No one knows of it except myself. Not even 
your father’s friend, Colonel Glenluce.” 

He paused, then went on: 

“I have always been very much interested in the study 
of finger-prints. In fact, I started my career as an 
operator in the finger-print department of Scotland Yard. 
Our method of classification is beyond praise, Sir Robert. 
It is not vanity which prompts me to add that the method 
was partly devised by myself. I know it so well that I 
can lay my hand on any set of prints in our records in a 
very short time. The system of tabulating and indexing 
is perfect.” 

“I do not see how this affects me,” Robert remarked, 
in surprise. “I am not interested in finger-prints.” 

“Perhaps not,” returned Luckraft. “It’s a technical 
subject, very little understood, which accounts for many 
absurd popular ideas concerning this method of identifica¬ 
tion. I must ask you to be patient, though. I will try 
and compress what I have to say.” 

“Go on, then,” said Robert abruptly. 

“I am pleased that you will listen.” Luckraft spoke 
softly, and drew two slips of paper from a pocket-book. 
These he placed on a table beside him, and viewed with 
professional interest. “It is believed that no tw r o people 
have the same finger-prints,” he briskly continued. “A 
fallacy! Here, for instance, are two prints with identical 
patterns of ridges and hollows. The subordinate marks 
and the creases are slightly different, but that does not 
lessen the astonishing coincidence. In other respects 


LUCKRAFT REVISITS REDWAYS 259 

these two records are identical, although taken under 
very different conditions.” 

He drew nearer and placed the two slips on the bureau, 
then added, in an explanatory voice: 

“Here is an impression of four fingers and the thumb 
of a right hand, taken simultaneously. The other record 
is also of the right hand, but by no means so clear. 
Nevertheless, to the expert it reveals the same character¬ 
istics as the other. That is to say, an expert would imme¬ 
diately declare it was made by the same hand. The sec¬ 
ond impression was taken from the surface of the bureau 
in this room.” 

“Indeed!” murmured Robert. 

“Old mahogany is sensitive to impressions, as you may 
have noticed. They fade as soon as made, as a rule. 
This bureau was recently rubbed with some kind of polish 
which retained impressions longer. At least, it did when 
I saw the bureau previously, which was on the morning 
after Sir Roger’s body was found in the tower. It was 
then that I observed more than one of the impressions 
on the second print. I had them photographed, in case 
they might be useful. At that time we were still in doubt 
as to the actual cause of Sir Roger’s death.” 

Robert sat quite still, staring at the two small slips 
of paper. Luckraft continued: 

“The other record was taken under much better con¬ 
ditions. The marks were discovered some years ago on 
the railing of a newly painted staircase: imprinted so 
clearly that they might have set there for the deliberate 
purpose of subsequent identification. That, of course, 
was not the case. If the owner of the hand had known 
he had left finger-prints, he would probably have risked 
returning to obliterate them. For they were made by a 
suspect.” 


260 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“A suspect?” echoed Robert mechanically. 

“By some one suspected of murder,” returned Luck- 
raft with gravity. “Listen! It is a long story, but it 
will interest you. Some years ago a police constable on 
night duty at Chelsea observed a young man walking 
fast on the opposite side of the street. He wore a long 
light overcoat, and a soft hat pulled well down to conceal 
his face. As the policeman glanced across the street the 
young man turned into a paved courtyard and mounted 
an iron staircase which communicated with a large block 
of flats overlooking the river. There was an agitation 
and haste in his movements which attracted the con¬ 
stable’s attention at the time, but he went on his way, 
and thought no more of the incident. 

“Returning that way some hours later when going off 
duty, he glanced across at the flats. They were in dark¬ 
ness, but a gas-jet flared in the courtyard below, as was 
customary. The policeman, being a conscientious officer, 
crossed the road to cast an eye up the staircase to see if 
everything was all right. As he entered the courtyard 
he was surprised to hear the sound of footsteps in the 
darkness above. He waited below, looking up. 

“Presently the figure of a man came in sight. He 
was running down the long narrow staircase (as the 
policeman described it) like a madman, and kept looking 
backwards over his shoulder as he ran. The officer w r as 
surprised to recognize in him the young man in the light 
overcoat whom he had seen entering the building some 
hours before. The policeman’s suspicions were now 
aroused, and he determined to stop him and question him. 

“The man descending must have seen the figure in 
uniform beneath, staring upwards w T ith the gas-light on 
his face, and, guessing his intention, came to a quick 
decision how to escape. Although some distance up when 


LUCKRAFT REVISITS REDWAYS 


261 


the policeman first saw him, he made no attempt to go 
back. He came down as quickly as before, his footsteps 
ringing loudly on the iron stairs, until it seemed as though 
he intended running into the arms of the officer waiting 
at the foot. But when he reached the first-floor landing, 
where the next twist of the staircase would have brought 
him into full view, he placed a hand on the baluster and 
lightly vaulted over the staircase into the courtyard be¬ 
low. Before the policeman could turn round he had 
dashed out into the street and disappeared in the dark¬ 
ness. 

“The policeman ran out into the road, but could see 
no sign of him. Realizing the uselessness of pursuit, he 
mounted the staircase to have a look at the flats. They 
seemed all right: doors closed and locked; no attempt 
at entry. He observed a dim hall light burning in the 
top flat, but the door was locked, and everything quiet 
within. The constable descended the staircase again and 
went home to bed. 

“Next day the body of a man, shot through the heart, 
was found in the top flat. The murder was brought to 
light in a peculiar way. The flat was empty, and in 
the hands of an agent for letting. He sent a likely tenant 
to the place with the key, and this visitor was greatly 
shocked at finding a body huddled up on the carpet of 
the front room, where the blinds were down. The light 
was still burning in the hall. 

“This was the mysterious crime we were called upon 
to solve with hardly any presumptions to guide us. The 
local constable’s account of the young man in the light 
overcoat did not help us much, because he had not seen 
the man’s face. The only other clue was the mark of 
finger-prints left by this unknown visitor on the freshly 
painted baluster rail when he leapt over into the court- 


262 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


yard to escape. We were also unable to establish the 
identification of the dead man. That was strange enough, 
but an even stranger aspect of the case was that he had 
no right in the flat at all. It belonged to a lady at 
Brighton, who assured us that she had given no authority 
to anyone except the agent to enter the place. She 
retained one key, and the agent had another. They were 
keys for the front door, which was the only possible en¬ 
trance to the flat. 

“Such is the outline of a crime which caused a consider¬ 
able sensation at the time. It was known as ‘The Chelsea 
Flat Case/ There was much indignation in the news¬ 
paper press at the failure of Scotland Yard to lay hands 
on the murderer. One journal offered a substantial re¬ 
ward for information leading to the identity and capture 
of the man who came leaping down the stairs in the dark. 
But he was never arrested. He and his light overcoat 
disappeared as though they had never existed. Time 
went on; popular clamour died aw r ay, and ‘The Chelsea 
Flat Case’ passed into Scotland Yard’s list of unsolved 
mysteries. It was forgotten by most people—except my¬ 
self. 

“I’ve always hoped that sooner or later I’d unearth 
the man who outwitted that Chelsea police constable so 
neatly. He showed great coolness and resource at a 
trying moment. He had left a murdered man in an 
empty flat upstairs, and found a policeman waiting at 
the foot of the staircase to stop him. His escape was 
cut off, and he w r as apparently cornered. His apprecia¬ 
tion of this situation and his daring plan to outwit the 
policeman had to be thought out on the spur of the 
moment while running from one flight of stairs to the next. 
He almost deserved to escape, because of his cleverness. 
Resource in crime is very rare, in my experience. As a 



LUCKRAFT REVISITS RED WAYS 263 

general rule English criminals have a very low order of 
intelligence. And resource is a quality which is rarely 
met with in the respectable middle class. Therefore I’ve 
always held the opinion that the light overcoat covered 
a visitor of unusual type, perhaps a young man of good 
family. I’ve waited for twelve years to put that theory 
to the test.” 

Luckraft ceased speaking. Robert raised his head and 
looked straight into his eyes. “Well?” was all he said, 
but Luckraft nodded comprehendingly. “There’s more 
to come yet,” he said. “I must explain the connection 
between the two sets of finger-prints.” 

“That is unnecessary,” rejoined Robert. “I have no 
desire to know.” 

“I had better tell you, though. When I was brought 
down here by Colonel Glenluce I naturally gathered some 
information about yourself and your early life, and your 
abrupt departure from England twelve years before. You 
were supposed to be dead until you returned in equally 
abrupt fashion some few weeks before your father’s death. 
In other eyes you were a figure submerged in mystery: 
regarded with awe, and perhaps a little fear—fear of the 
unknown. These strange episodes in your life set me 
pondering how a gentleman like yourself came to leave 
home and family and stay away for years. I could think 
of nothing to account for it save that you had done 
something in the first place which compelled you to leave 
the country. I was also led to the conclusion that this 
act, whatever it was, must have been of a grave nature 
to keep you away so long and cause you to hold no com¬ 
munication with your family, so that they came to the 
conclusion that you were dead. Why should a man like 
yourself, with apparently everything to live for, vanish 
off the earth in this mysterious fashion? Fear of the 


264 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


law seemed to me the only possible explanation. I ex¬ 
amined the official records of undiscovered crimes which 
corresponded with the period of your departure from 
your native land. The Chelsea Flat Case was the most 
important, and the circumstances of that crime pointed 
to no ordinary criminal. That gave me the clue. I com¬ 
pared the two sets of finger-prints. They were identical.” 

“Very interesting.” Robert’s voice was non-committal. 
“And now—what next?” 

Luckraft held up a deprecating hand. 

“Allow me to state what remains. I have dwelt on 
these points in detail because I had nothing to go upon 
in the beginning but surmise, and it was necessary to 
show you how I linked up two widely divergent sets of 
facts.” 

Robert looked at Luckraft in complete detachment. 
He was quite calm. Another blow had fallen. Fate had 
driven in its last nail. 

“What do you intend to do?” he asked. “What is 
your object in coming to tell me this?” 

Luckraft did not reply to the question. He seemed 
to be thinking. At length he said: 

“I am informed that you are leaving England again, 
Sir Robert.” He hesitated, then added with composure: 
“I see no necessity for that step.” 

Robert, looking up, interrupted sharply. “What do 
you mean?” he said. 

Again, Luckraft did not reply immediately. He scruti¬ 
nized Robert closely before uttering his next words. 

“You left England twelve years ago to shield some 
one,” he said. 

“How did you learn that?” asked Robert, speaking in 
a very low voice. 

Luckraft permitted himself a faint smile. 


LUCKRAFT REVISITS REDWAYS 


265 


“It is our business to find out these things,” he observed. 
“Such secrets are safe with us unless justice demands 
their disclosure. In your case that necessity does not 
arise. The secret which you have guarded for twelve 
years can remain a secret still. That is to say, names 
need not be disclosed. Listen to what I have still to 
say, and then decide. For twelve years you have lived 
under a cloud of your own making, and, if I mistake not, 
you are now doing the same thing again. There is a 
certain resemblance between the facts of Sir Roger’s death 
and the case at Chelsea which caused you to leave Eng¬ 
land twelve years ago.” 

Robert sprang to his feet in excitement. “I don’t 
understand you,” he exclaimed. 

“Sit down, and I will try and make it clear to you,” 
rejoined Luckraft. “The resemblance is in one particular 
only. In the Chelsea case a man was murdered, but Sir 
Roger died from natural causes. But in both cases 
certain facts were carefully hidden to shield a woman, and 
in each instance the woman was shielded by yourself.” 

“What facts were concealed about my father’s death?” 
Robert asked this question in a constrained voice. 

“I think you could tell me that, or at least help me to 
discover them,” was the cautious rejoinder. 

“I have no idea what you mean. Are you suggesting 
that Sir Roger was murdered?” 

“That was not my thought. But I believe that his 
body was carried from the house to the place where it 
was found.” 

Robert gave a start which did not escape Luckraft’s 
eyes. Then he said: 

“For what reason?” 

“That I cannot even surmise,” rejoined Luckraft can¬ 
didly. “It is what I should like to discover. The matter 


266 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


is a disquieting one. There are certain things which 
should be cleared up: certain doubts which require an 
answer. I cannot answer them. It is for you to choose, 
for I believe you know. If you are wise you will disclose 
them. If you are thinking of leaving England-” 

“I cannot leave England now,” interrupted Robert, 
with a look of surprise. 

“If you wish to there is nothing to prevent you,” said 
Luckraft, in a soft voice. 

Robert looked at him angrily. 

“Let there be an end to this,” he said disdainfully. 
“Are you trying to induce me to invent a story so as 
to help you round off a case? If so, you are wasting 
your time. Do you wish me to accompany you back to 
London?” 

“No, no; you are quite mistaken.” Luckraft’s cold 
eyes rested on Robert’s face with a curious glance in 
which admiration seemed mingled with disappointment. 
“I thought that I understood a little about human nature, 
but I am not so sure now that I do.” He made this 
admission with another of his dim smiles. “There is 
still something remaining to be told about the Chelsea 
case, though I thought you would have guessed it from 
what I have already said. We know all about that mur¬ 
der case. The woman you shielded made a clean breast 
of it.” 

These words seemed to reach Robert from a distance. 
He sat quite still. 

“It was a death-bed confession, made three years ago,” 
continued Luckraft. “Let me relate it in the form of 
an hypothetical case, so as still to preserve that reticence 
regarding the persons concerned which has been observed 
for so long. Let us go back twelve years, and picture 
a young and beautiful woman, the wife of an army officer 



LUCKRAFT REVISITS REDWAYS 


267 


in India, madly in love with a young man of some wealth 
and social position. The young man, it seems, was not 
aware that she was married. She was supposed to be a 
widow. They both moved in a pretty smart set and 
her charm for him was one which is easily exerted by a 
beautiful woman over a man younger than herself. Such 
an affair has its perils. In this case it took the customary 
course of stealthy passages and stolen meetings. Their 
meeting-places were carefully selected with an eye to 
secrecy. The flat was one of them. There was a third 
key. I’m not prepared to say whether the lady at 
Brighton was aware of its existence. She assured us posi¬ 
tively that there were only two keys in existence, but 
women can lie with an infinitude of conviction when it 
suits them to do so. At any rate, it is clear now that 
the wife of the army officer was a friend of the Brighton 
woman, and knew that the flat was unoccupied. She 
may have had a key which fitted the lock. However, 
that point is immaterial, and has no bearing on the case, 
one way or another. What is to the purpose is that on 
this night, going to the flat by appointment, she was 
seen from a taxi by her husband, unexpectedly returned 
from India that day, and at that moment on his way 
to Cheyne Walk, where his wife resided. Life has such 
strange mischances, as we know. 

“Apparently his suspicions were aroused at the sight 
of his wife hurrying along a wet deserted street on such a 
night, unattended, and on foot. He stopped his taxi, 
paid it off, and followed her to the unfrequented street 
where she was bound. From the road he watched her 
enter the courtyard, and go up the flight of stairs. It 
seems that he followed her silently, and when she entered 
the top flat he stood in the shadow of the little landing, 
waiting. In a few minutes the young man in the light 


268 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


overcoat came up the stairs, and knocked lightly at the 
door. When it was opened by the woman the army 
officer slipped across the landing and followed them into 
the flat. As his wife turned to shut the door it was closed 
for her, and she saw her husband standing there. By 
the light she had just lit she saw something glittering 
in his hand. It was a revolver—his Service revolver. 

“I do not suppose that he intended to use it. He 
may have intended to frighten them, or merely to safe¬ 
guard himself. That’s something I shall never know, for 
at the sight of the weapon terror took possession of the 
woman—sheer, unreasoning terror. No doubt the shock 
of seeing her husband there, when she believed him to 
be thousands of miles away, helped to destroy her mental 
balance. Without a word she rushed on him swiftly, 
and attempted to drag the revolver from his grasp. He 
struggled to retain it. She declared that the shot which 
killed him was accidental. Again, I cannot say whether 
this is truth. But it is certain that a shot was fired by 
her, and that shot killed her husband. He stared at them 
both with a kind of whitening smile, and then crumpled 
up on the floor as though his bones had gone to wax. 
That was the manner in which his death was described 
to me. 

“They discussed what they had better do. It was 
the woman’s idea for them both to leave the flat after 
removing from the body any papers which might have 
led to identification. When this had been done she left 
the flat first, and her companion remained behind until 
she got clear. As she pointed out, they dared not run 
the risk of being seen together. So he remained behind 
to cover her retreat, as it were: a course which nearly 
led to his own arrest, as we have seen. 

“When the lady—still in a state of extreme terror— 


LUCKRAFT REVISITS REDWAYS 


269 


saw him at his rooms in Half Moon Street next day, she 
urged him to go away, for a time at least. She made that 
suggestion from a motive of deep selfishness, but the 
young man had every reason to think that it was neces¬ 
sary for him to get out of England as quickly as possible. 
He believed that the policeman had seen him come down¬ 
stairs on the previous night, and therefore his arrest was 
certain to follow, sooner or later. He left England, and 
stayed away, to avoid arrest for murder. He w r as not 
the type to clear himself at the expense of a woman who 
had loved him. He went into exile and stayed there, 
because his lips were sealed, 

“The identity of the dead man was never known to 
us until this confession. He had left the army, and 
returned to England without announcing his intention to 
anyone, for reasons which he took to the grave with him. 
Perhaps one might make a guess at them, but it would 
be only a guess after all. At one time I’d have thought 
it strange for a man to vanish off the face of the earth 
without being missed, but after a man has been in Scot¬ 
land Yard for a few years he loses the capacity for being 
surprised at anything on earth. The two persons prin¬ 
cipally affected by this man’s death could never have fore¬ 
seen such a lucky chance, or they might have acted dif¬ 
ferently.” 

He rose to his feet, hesitated, then added in a different 
voice: 

“That is the story, Sir Robert. I am glad to be able 
to bring you this news.” 

Robert sat there, in silence. When he lifted his head 
and looked up he was alone. It w r as impossible to guess 
his feelings at that moment. His face remained inscruta¬ 
ble as ever, schooled by the teaching of the years. 
Stretching forth his hand, he opened one of the drawers 


270 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


of the bureau and drew forth the letter he had received 
from Kathleen on the island. As his eye scanned the 
faded lines he smiled a little, then he folded up the letter 
with a sigh. He had carried his dark burden for so long 
that loneliness still held him in a close grip. It was for 
Kathleen to say whether that grip was to be loosened, 
and if peace was to be his after all these years. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE GUX.F BETWEEN 

F ROM the terrace Kathleen walked across the lawn 
to where Robert was waiting for her by the sun¬ 
dial. He looked at her as she approached, con¬ 
scious that she was changed. 

“It was good of you to come, Lady Fibbets,” he said. 
She raised her dark eyes to his, but dropped them again 
before he was able to gain more than a glimpse of their 
sad and troubled depths. 

“You wished to see me, Robert,” she murmured. 

“I did,” he responded in a gentle voice. “I have some¬ 
thing to say to you, Kathleen.” 

“Yes?” she said questioningly. 

“Something which affects us both,” he went on. 

“Yes?” she echoed, this time somewhat timidly. 

“I want to tell you why I left England twelve years 
ago,” he began. 

She had not expected this, and was correspondingly 
surprised. 

“Why are you confiding in me?” she asked in a low 
and hurried tone. 

He did not reply at once, but turned into a green 
vista opening off the garden path. 

“Let us walk on,” he said. 

Kathleen walked beside him in silence until they reached 

the end of the garden. On the other side of the tall 

clipped hedge the trees of the little wood flared crimson 

in a funeral pyre of their own decay. Beyond the wood 

271 


272 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


the river gleamed, cold and grey. Robert pointed to a 
rustic seat, and they sat down. In this secluded spot 
he related his story to Kathleen. 

He told her all that he thought it necessary for her to 
know in the fewest possible words. He mentioned no 
names, and left her intelligence to bridge portions of the 
narrative best left unspoken. Even at that moment he 
protected the memory of that unknown dead woman whom 
his silence had shielded so long. But his conscience, which 
had scourged him secretly and incessantly through the 
long years of his solitary self-communion, "would not per¬ 
mit him to shield himself now that he was at last free 
to speak. In those lonely years he had taught himself 
to look into his heart with clear eyes, and at this supreme 
instant of his life he was his own merciless judge. He 
felt that his own share in that piece of tragic folly which 
had wrecked his life admitted of no palliation or excuse, 
but, altogether apart from that, it was better for Kath¬ 
leen, if she loved him, to learn everything from now than 
turn to him, perhaps, in after years and say: “You did 
not tell me all.” 

So he spoke with his eyes fixed on the distant river, 
and Kathleen listened. She heard him throughout in con¬ 
strained silence, for a reason he did not guess. They 
were at cross-purposes, in fact, and Kathleen was far 
from understanding him aright. She could not grasp the 
reason which had led him to talk to her thus, though 
she did realize that his confession was the outcome of an 
obviously painful effort. She was also able to judge the 
case he laid before her, and to see that he was condemning 
himself too severely. His solitary broodings over this 
thing had distorted his sense of proportion, Kathleen 
thought. With the degree of moral turpitude involved 
she was not particularly concerned. It was all so long 


THE GULF BETWEEN 


273 


ago and remote. But her feminine judgment arraigned 
the woman as the principal offender throughout, as well 
as the criminal at the end. Robert had suffered and paid 
in full, but this woman he had shielded remained the 
chief sinner. 

If this had been all, the girl’s eager nature would have 
overflowed in sympathy for the man who sat beside her, 
telling her his story with halting tongue, and pain and 
sorrow in his voice. She would have turned to him with 
tender eyes, and generous hands outstretched, anger like 
a flame within her at the thought of this shameless treach¬ 
erous member of her own sex who had sent him forth 
alone, like Ishmael, to bear the burden of her sin. If 
only this was all! But there was that unforgettable mys¬ 
tery of a recent night which thrust its formless shape 
between them like a cold shadow, chilling her warm girlish 
impulses, filling her with perplexity and pain. 

He seemed surprised at her silence, and his attitude 
suggested the disappointment which he felt. He looked 
at her questioningly once or twice, but as she did not 
speak he went on, though with a visible effort: 

“I can see that you blame me deeply.” 

“No, no! I do not—not for this.” She added the 
last words in a lower tone. “You—you have been terribly 
punished. Why should I presume to blame you? Indeed 
you must believe me when I say so.” 

He was reassured by these words. He spoke again, 
but even more slowly: 

“Thank you for saying that. Do you know why I 

have told you this, Kathleen?” 

There was an inflection in his voice which she had 
never heard before. It disturbed her vaguely. 

“No,” she replied in an undertone. 

“Because I love you, dear,” he said softly. 


274 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


His words came to her with a shock which was greater 
because of the maddening throb of joy in her treacherous 
heart. That joy was quickly extinguished by the memory 
of what she remembered. 

“Oh,” she cried, with a half-sob, “how can you say 
this to me!” 

“I am sorry, Kathleen.” His face was sad. “You are 
right of course. I might have guessed that what I have 
told you was too terrible for a girl like you to understand. 
But it was better for you to know it, before I asked you 
for your love.” 

“It is not that,” she unsteadily replied. “I have said 
I do not blame you. How could IP But-” 

“But you cannot love me? Is that what you were 
going to say?” 

She let that question pass, and lifted shamed eyes to 
his face, forcing herself to explain. 

“I know everything,” she whispered. 

He was slow in taking her meaning. 

“Will you speak more plainly?” he said patiently. 
“What is it you know?” 

“I know you met Stella that night.” 

“What night?” 

“The night when Sir Roger disappeared.” 

He gave a slight start which did not escape her, but 
his voice was steady as he replied: 

“Again, I am afraid I do not understand you.” 

“I think you do,” she answered tremulously. “I saw 
Stella. I watched her go-” Her voice failed her. 

“Go where?” 

“Into your room.” 

“Where were you?” he asked in level tones. 

“At the door of my room.” 

He appeared to reflect. “What else did you see?” 




THE GULF BETWEEN 275 

“I saw Sir Roger come up the stairs, turn into the 
corridor, and knock at your door.” 

“Anything else?” he said brusquely. 

She looked at him with a little fear, and her eyes were 
bright w r ith unshed tears. 

“I do not wish to talk of this,” she whispered. “It 
is too painful, too dreadful.” 

“We must speak of it,” he bitterly rejoined. “You 
do not guess all this means to me. You are a modern 
girl, so I will speak plainly. You seem to have put the 
worst interpretation on what you saw.” 

“What other interpretation is possible?” 

She spoke with a coldness which she was far from feel¬ 
ing. In the midst of the moral annihilation which envel¬ 
oped them, her sinking heart still clung to the hope that 
he might be yet able to save them with some explanation 
which she could accept. Her girlish inexperience could 
not fathom his attitude, and her despairing prayer was 
that he might strive to make it clear. She waited. 

“I cannot explain,” he said in a dull voice. 

He eyed her covertly, anxiously. Her heart died within 
her at his words, but she remained outw T ardly calm. 

“If you cannot explain, had we not better terminate 
this painful interview?” was what she heard herself saying. 

“A painful interview!” he echoed. “Yes; it is certainly 
that—to me. But as we have started this conversation 
w r e had better go on. At least let us try to understand 
one another before w r e part. I have told you that I love 
you. That is something which calls for a reply.” 

“Unless you can explain to me that I am wrong, I 
can only regard your love as an insult,” she steadily re¬ 
plied. 

“I will tell you the truth, whether you believe me or 
not,” he rejoined wdth equal firmness. “I have told you 


276 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


that I love you. I have always loved you, and I shall 
love you till I die. That, at least, is truth. Now I tell 
you that you are wrong in supposing what you did. And, 
again, that is the truth.” 

“What did it mean, then?” she asked a little breath¬ 
lessly. 

Before her earnest uplifted gaze his own glance fell. 

“I cannot explain that,” he rejoined sombrely. With 
a swift change of tone he continued: “Kathleen, do not 
ask me, but believe me and trust me. I have asked you 
for your love. Would I have dared to do so if my lips 
had been steeped in lies and deceit? No; for that would 
have been to risk too much. More than that, it would 
not have been worth while. Is it not possible for you 
to realize this? If this had been w T hat you thought it to 
be—my guilt and my shame—I could never have spoken 
of love to you.” 

She looked at him with sorrowful eyes. In the eager¬ 
ness of his appeal he had stretched a hand towards her, 
but dropped it again. She regarded his listless fingers 
attentively now, longing to clasp them. Her heart whis¬ 
pered to her: “Believe him, believe him; he is speaking 
truth.” But the voice of that gentle advocate was stifled 
by the insistence of pride and reason. She looked at 
him again in weariness of spirit, trying to read his soul. 
But his face was inscrutable. Impossible to tell what 
lay behind that mask: candour and truth, or falsehood 
and deceit. There were two men within him, as she well 
knew. Which had spoken to her? Robert Lynngarth, 
whom she had known and trusted in her childhood’s days, 
or the being who had wandered beyond her ken, to return 
scarred and hardened? 

Again, her mind reverted to all she had seen, and a 
revulsion of feeling swept over her. She flushed swiftly. 



THE GULF BETWEEN 


277 


then as quickly went pale. Trust him, believe him? Ah, 
that was impossible, when she thought of that night. She 
felt she could never believe in his love with that memory 
in her mind, sinister and unexplained. No, a thousand 
times no! A new and terrible suspicion shot through her 
brain that what she had witnessed that night was part 
of some hidden sequence of events in which his own com¬ 
plicity was best covered by silence. 

Robert was watching her to see the effect of his words. 
He came closer. 

“Kathleen!” he said. 

She recoiled from him quickly, exclaiming: 

“Do not come near me; do not touch me.” 

His face went white to the lips. She heard him say: 

“I am not likely to touch you against your wish.” His 
voice was lifeless. “You have given your answer. You 
do not believe me.” 

“If it were only a question of believing, I should have 
to ask myself what that belief covered,” she said, after a 
pause. 

“That is too subtle for me.” He spoke sternly. 

“It may be better for me to disbelieve what you have 
told me than to imagine something worse.” She brought 
her suspicion into light of day with tremulous delibera¬ 
tion. 

He puzzled over her words and grasped her meaning. 
He raised his head sharply. 

“You have said enough.” He spoke in an unmoved 
voice, without any trace of bitterness, but Kathleen had 
the strange idea that he was looking down at her from 
a height, from some dim lonely altitude where he dwelt 
alone. “I do not blame you—why should I? The cir¬ 
cumstances are damning indeed. Who am I to expect 
that you should light the sacred lamp of faith for me? 


278 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


Believe me or not, but I have spoken as truth itself. 
These are my last words to you before I go.” 

“Go—go where?” she faltered. 

“I shall go back to my island. My passage has not 
been cancelled, because I did not learn of this Chelsea 
confession until last night. Then I w T as foolish enough 
to hope that I might not have to go at all. I know better 
now. There is a steamer leaving Tilbury to-morrow, 
and I shall catch it.” 

“There is no need for you to go—because of me,” said 
Kathleen faintly. “I can leave—leave Redw r ays-” 

He silenced her with a gentle gesture, as though she 
were a child. 

“There is no need for that. I go to-morrow, as ar¬ 
ranged. The island will be my sanctuary, as w 7 ell as for 
the birds. There’s the sea and the sky, solitary walks, 
a dog, and the birds. For the rest, there is peace—the 
peace of nature. . . . ‘Night and day . . . sun, moon, 
and stars, all sweet things . . likewise a wind on the 
heath.’ Do you remember ‘Lavengro,’ Kathleen?” 

He paused, hesitated, and then went on: 

“I should not have returned to England, and, indeed, a 
superstitious man might have hesitated to obey a summons 
brought by the dead. There may be something in such 
omens, and perhaps it is folly to disregard them. I had 
gained a measure of peace there. Well, I will go back 
and seek to regain it.” 

He came to an abrupt stop. His eyes had a far look 
in them, as if in imagination he saw the place of his 
thoughts: the island with glittering cliffs, the birds, the 
long line of sea, the open horizon where freedom dwelt. 
Kathleen looked at him in silence. 

He raised his head and met her glance with a grave 
smile. 




THE GULF BETWEEN 


279 


“I will not go until I have told you all my reasons for 
leaving the island,” he said. “There is something I kept 
back. I did not realize how much it meant until I re¬ 
turned. You had something to do with my return.” 

“I—I do not understand,” she faltered. 

His answ r er was to take a folded letter from his pocket- 
book : a sheet of paper discoloured by sea-water and faded 
with age. 

“This came from you, with the one from my mother,” 
he said quietly. “You were a child when you wrote 
it, with the faith of a child.” 

She bent her head over the letter and read the childish 
scrawl. Her heart beat painfully. A tear splashed down 
on the paper. But he did not see that. 

“I came back because one human being besides my 
mother believed in me,” he went on sadly. “It seems 
I was mistaken in thinking so, as I have so often been 
mistaken during my life. As I said, Lady Fibbets, I 
do not blame you—why should IP—only, your unbelief 
brings home to me my folly in leaving the island. And 
now I go back.” 

He walked away quietly and left her alone, sitting with 
bent head looking down at the letter in her hands—a 
faded piece of paper on which tears were dropping fast. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


THE VALLEY OF DECISION 

I N the end Kathleen acted on the spur of the moment 
after a sleepless night spent in reviewing that last 
talk. Reason endeavoured to reassure her by telling 
her that she had behaved as a self-respecting English 
girl should. But reason is a poor companion in grief, 
and Kathleen was young. By her act he was faring forth, 
to return no more. No more! In the unhappiness of 
that thought his weary eyes haunted her through the dark 
hours with the look which had crept into them when he 
had made his last appeal. 

At dinner-time he had said good-bye to them all, be¬ 
cause, he said, he had to catch a very early train, and 
he did not wish to bring them down from their rooms in 
the bleak dawn for the purpose of a leave-taking which 
might just as well be taken then. Lady Mercer, coldness 
hiding a bitterly grieved heart, had acquiesced in the 
wisdom of this. She remarked that at her time of life 
she could not rise at an unearthly hour because he chose 
to go rushing off to the end of the earth again. Lady 
Mercer looked as if she might have said a great deal 
more, but just then she gave a quick glance at Robert’s 
face, compressed her lips, and was silent. The next mo¬ 
ment she kissed him fondly and turned away, sailing up 
the great staircase with a brave front, which she kept 
up until her door closed behind her. 

There remained Kathleen and Stella. Restraint held 

the three of them, and invested their good-byes with the 

280 


THE VALLEY OF DECISION 


281 


coldness of a brief and formal ceremony. The moment 
held awkward possibilities, and Kathleen guessed why 
Robert preferred to have it over then instead of the morn¬ 
ing, when it might have been worse. The girl looked at 
him sadly, but Stella seemed almost indifferent. These 
farewells spoken, Robert left the room, and the two girls 
were alone. Stella sat there listlessly, but Kathleen rose 
to go to her room. She had no share in the other’s 
thoughts, though she might have guessed them, and her 
own were unhappy enough. Which of them could face 
the future best without him? That was the thought in 
her mind as she mounted the stairs. Over the baluster 
her eyes watched the tall form of Robert going along the 
gleaming oak corridor to the Painted Room—for the last 
time. 

He was going away. She wanted to be alone. 

So it happened that Kathleen, lying wide-eyed at dawn, 
heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel outside. She 
slipped out of bed and went to the window. In the 
carriage drive before the terrace she could see the closed 
car which was to take him to the station. It was a black 
car, reminding her of a hearse, and, like a hearse, it 
was about to carry off everything she held dear in life. 
The chauffeur was making ready to start, whistling 
blithely—how could he whistle when her heart was broken? 
Robert’s trunks were placed at the back and strapped 
securely. Everything was ready. Robert came forth 
with a light coat on his arm, accompanied by Jauncey. 
He shook hands with him. “Good-bye, Jauncey.” His 
voice reached her, pleasant and clear, followed by the 
butler’s deferential reply: “Good-bye, Sir Robert. My 
respectful wishes for a pleasant journey and a speedy 
return.” Jauncey did not know he was not coming back. 
Only she knew that. 


282 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


As he stepped into the car he shot one fleeting upward 
glance at her window. He could not see her, because the 
curtains hid her, but she flushed a little and drew hur¬ 
riedly back. Then the car moved off with a heartless 
whirring on the gravel, and was quickly borne from her 
sight round a bend in the drive. The first stage of his 
long journey had begun; he had left the home of his 
fathers with none to see the last of him except a couple 
of sleepy and indifferent servitors now gaping at the half¬ 
open door. 

His last glance had been at her window—not Stella’s. 

Stella’s blind was drawn when Kathleen dressed and 
went down into the garden, where the swallows were flying 
high. The blind was still down when she went in to 
breakfast. Kathleen had the breakfast-room to herself 
that morning—to herself and her thoughts. 

She was restless after the meal, and wandered from 
room to room of the deserted house. The portraits of 
generations of Lynngarths looked down upon her. She 
studied those faces of which only dim painted outlines 
remained. They had once lived, and had their share of 
happiness and pain, but had any one of them suffered 
such misery as she was feeling now? Life seemed very 
difficult, and hard to understand. Were not human be¬ 
ings born into the world to be happy? There was some¬ 
thing in this grim indifference of the unknown gods which 
disconcerted her, and made her feel afraid. 

Ten o’clock. The hour chimed in solemn measure from 
a clock near her. Robert’s boat was due to leave Tilbury 
at five. She had ascertained that fact at the breakfast- 
table from the shipping columns of The Times. Until 
that hour he was still on English soil. Only seven hours, 
and the minutes nibbling away at them, like rats gnawing 
a piece of rope. Seven hours! No: less now. The min- 


THE VALLEY OF DECISION 


283 


utes kept going with maddening persistence, for there was 
something vaguely comforting in the knowledge that he 
was still in England. The departure of the ship meant 
the irrevocable end and the final parting. 

It was w T hen the hour had reached eleven that the im¬ 
pulse to go to London came into her head. She did not 
know what put it there. Perhaps the empty rooms, with 
their memories of him, prompted the thought of catching 
a final glimpse of him before it was too late. But Kath¬ 
leen did not reason about that. The idea came into her 
mind, and stayed there. She did not think of going 
after him to tell him she had changed her mind, to ask 
him to stay in England. No; with the longing of youth 
she wdshed merely to see him, from afar and unseen. 

Excitement succeeded apathy. A flush crept into her 
cheeks. Dared she go—ought she to go? It was some¬ 
thing to do, and would take her away from that silent 
house, even if she did not see him. At least there could 
be no harm in inquiring at the shipping office what time 
the boat train left London. That committed her to noth¬ 
ing. A moment later she was downstairs at the telephone. 
The answering ring to her trunk call came w T ith astonish¬ 
ing quickness. She asked her question. A distant voice 
broke the perfect stillness with the information that the 
last boat train for the Gerondia left Fenchurch Street at 
3.15. Kathleen restored the receiver to its hook. She 
knew there was a fast express from Winchester at 12.40, 
which reached Waterloo at ten minutes past two. Her 
watch pointed to half-past eleven. She had time to 
catch it, if she went at once. 

“I’ll go,” she whispered. 

It was something, indeed, this call for instant action, 
instead of sitting still watching the time slip away. Kath¬ 
leen ran up to her room to get ready, and a few minutes 



284 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


later was wheeling her bicycle down the carriage-drive. 
The car would have been quicker, but she wished no one 
to know of her journey. She had been bred decorously, 
and was quite excited by the daring of the escapade; at 
the thought of Lady Mercer’s disapproval if she knew. 
She reached the station in good time, and found herself 
in an empty first-class compartment ten minutes before 
the departure of the train. 

She had left Redways in emotional mood, with only a 
vague idea of what she was going to do in London, and 
her mind w r as not much clearer when the train reached 
Waterloo. She found herself engaging a taxicab and 
telling the driver to take her to Fenchurch Street. On 
the way down Fleet Street and up Ludgate Hill her plan 
took shape. At the station she v 7 ould get a platform 
ticket, and she would then slip through and scan the train. 
Even if she didn’t see Robert, she would at least see the 
train which was carrying him away. Such was her plan, 
perfected while the taxicab w r as held up in the traffic out¬ 
side the Bank. Kathleen feared they might not get 
through in time, but the station clock pointed to three 
w r hen they reached Fenchurch Street. A porter bought 
her a platform ticket, and pointed out the platform from 
where the boat train started. 

Kathleen walked tow-ards it, quickly at first, then more 
cautiously. She could see the train alongside the plat¬ 
form, a very long train, which was rapidly filling with 
passengers who kept arriving every minute in motor-cars 
and taxicabs. There was a great deal of bustle and 
confusion, with porters running about with luggage. For 
a moment Kathleen w T atched this scene from a distance. 
She felt she need not trouble herself seriously with the 
fear of being detected by Robert. There was such a 
multitude of people there. That reflection brought an- 


285 


THE VALLEY OF DECISION 

other was she likely to catch a glimpse of him? She 
had not foreseen a station packed with people about to 
leave England, and other people there to see them off. 

The queue outside shortened. Kathleen drew nearer, 
and glanced over the barrier. 

His face came into her vision quite unexpectedly, with¬ 
out any effort of search on her part. His tall figure 
was responsible for that. He was at the far end of the 
platform, talking to some one hidden by the crowd. Then 
the remnant at the barrier melted through, and she had a 
glimpse of his companion. It was Stella. 

The train began to fill. As the crowd on the station 
thinned, Kathleen saw her more clearly, standing in the 
shadow of a pillar, looking up into Robert’s face with 
wistful eyes. Her hands were clasped lightly in front of 
her, and she was very still. Robert was talking to her, 
and she appeared to be listening intently. 

Kathleen fell back a little from the barrier. The ex¬ 
altation which had brought her to London was succeeded 
by a feeling of dull apathy. At that moment she longed 
to be away from all that clamour and confusion, back in 
the calm seclusion of Redways. But she did not move. 
She remained where she was, her eyes fixed upon the forms 
of Robert and Stella. As she watched them her mind 
was at work. She told herself that she understood what 
it meant very well. There was nothing surprising in 
Stella’s presence there. She had motored to Winchester 
and caught an early train to London. No doubt it had 
all been prearranged between her and Robert, and that 
was why she had seemed so indifferent when he had said 
good-bye to her last night. Now Stella had his last looks, 
his parting thoughts. What did that mean? Kathleen 
did not know—perhaps some state of affairs of which 
she was in ignorance. She felt humiliated, and ashamed 


286 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


of herself for her fruitless journey. It would be better 
for her to go away. Yet she hesitated. She remained 
behind the barrier, watching them. 

She heard a cry of “Stand clear!” from a man in 
uniform. The engine-driver looked out from the engine- 
cab, waiting for the signal to start. There was a slam¬ 
ming of doors, and the sound of a whistle. Kathleen saw 
Robert put out his hand to Stella, and she took it and 
clung to it as though she would never let go. The train 
began to move. Robert gently freed himself and sprang 
into his compartment. With a final tragic gesture Stella 
turned away without a backward glance, and was lost to 
Kathleen’s sight. 

Her own eyes were on the receding train. It moved 
out slowly, then with gathering speed. The end of the 
rearmost compartment grew smaller and smaller, and 
finally disappeared from her gaze. 

Then she turned away, an unhappy girl, to go back to 
Redways. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


ON THE SAME DAY 

I T was something to get back to the peace of Redways 
after that experience, even in the dark, and to a 
distracted and angry Lady Mercer. Kathleen needed 
comfort, but it was not to be denied that Lady Mercer 
had some right to be angry, even if Kathleen had been 
the sole cause. But it was more serious than that. 

“My dear Kathleen, wherever have you been?” she ex¬ 
claimed, as soon as the girl appeared. 

“To London,” was the reply. 

“You tool” The eyes above the hooked nose flashed 
a piercing glance. “What took you there?” 

“I went to do some shopping.” Kathleen despised her¬ 
self for the lie, but she was too overwrought to tell the 
truth and all that it entailed. That might come later, 
but not then. 

“You might have told me, I think.” 

“Oh, what does it matter?” Kathleen exclaimed, a trifle 
hysterically. 

Lady Mercer looked up at her face in some surprise. 
“Apparently nothing nowadays,” was her dry comment. 
“Modern girls do as they like, it seems. However, you 
are back, but I’ve not the least idea what’s become of 
Stella.” 

“Stella!” said Kathleen faintly. 

“Yes. She went up to London also, it appears, and 

took the large car. She ordered it early and went off 

without letting a soul in the house know—not even her 

maid. It’s most extraordinary.” 

287 


288 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


Her words sounded angry, but she looked distressed. 
Kathleen reflected that Stella must have slipped down¬ 
stairs and gone off in the car while she was upstairs trying 
to make up her mind to go by train. All things con¬ 
sidered, there was an irony in the situation more bitter 
than tears. The girl mustered up courage to ask a ques¬ 
tion : 

“How do you know she went to London?” 

“Denton returned with the car an hour ago.” 

“Without Stella?” 

“Without Stella,” repeated Lady Mercer emphatically. 
She proceeded to give Kathleen further enlightenment. 
“Denton says they reached London about one o’clock, 
and her ladyship ordered him to drive her to Piccadilly 
Circus. She stopped the car at the Haymarket exit of 
the Piccadilly Tube, and told him to return to Redways, 
as she was visiting some friends. Denton asked her if 
the car was to be sent to meet any train at Winchester 
in the evening. Stella told him no, as she would not be 
returning that night. She had a dressing-case with her, 
it seems. So there was nothing else for Denton to do but 
drive back with the empty car.” 

Kathleen absorbed this piece of news in silence, con¬ 
sidering it in all its bearings. Lady Mercer glanced at 
her downcast face, and spoke again, in a changed tone. 

“The servants don’t know what it means, but they’re 
suspicious already. I can see that.” 

“Why should they be?” Kathleen spoke very carefully. 
“If Stella wishes to go to London for a few days-” 

A sharp ejaculation from Lady Mercer stopped her. 
“Two or three days! Nonsense, I know better than that. 
It means-” She pulled herself up suddenly. 

“What does it mean?” Kathleen spoke rather breath¬ 
lessly. 




ON THE SAME DAY 289 

Lady Mercer took another look at her, long and intent. 

“It means she’s gone for good!” 

In her agitation Kathleen almost betrayed herself. 
“Why—why should she go away?” she stammered. 

“Why?” The great lady bounced out of her chair, 
in a towering passion. “You ask why? To bring fur¬ 
ther disgrace on this unhappy house!” She paced angrily 
about the room. “I know it; I have suspected it all along. 
She has gone with-” 

She stopped on the verge of uttering the name which 
was in both their minds, checked herself with a faint flush 
on her withered cheeks. But she got her temper in hand 
too late. Kathleen looked at her. 

“I know what you were going to say,” she said. 

“I meant nothing,” murmured Lady Mercer, inwardly 
condemning her impetuosity. 

“You did,” the girl insisted, in a low tone. “You think 
Stella has gone away with Robert.” 

Lady Mercer looked distressed. 

“My dear,” she said, “I did not say so.” 

“You thought it,” returned the girl. 

“It is not a matter I care to discuss with you, Kath¬ 
leen.” 

“That means you do think so,” exclaimed Kathleen, 
scanning her face. Her breath came quicker and her eyes 
brightened with excitement. “Why should you?” 

“My dear,” began the old lady again, actually quailing 
before Kathleen’s glance. “Do not let us talk of this. 
After all, we do not know-” 

“No, we only slander,” broke in Kathleen passionately. 
“Oh, we women are all alike, without compunction or 
charity where our own sex are concerned. You have 
just said that Stella has left Redways for good.” 

“It looks like it.” 




290 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“I believe she has too.” 

Lady Mercer looked startled. Kathleen went on: 

“If she has gone, it is not as you suggest.” 

“What do you know about it?” asked Lady Mercer 
in a strange voice. 

Kathleen looked at her with stormy eyes. She was 
strongly tempted to tell the truth. 

“I know you are wrong.” 

“You had better tell me why you think so,” remarked 
Lady Mercer quietly. 

“I saw Stella saying good-bye to Robert.” 

“Where was this?” 

“At the station in London.” 

“Were you there too?” 

“No; I was at the barrier outside. But I saw them 
plainly. At the last moment, just as the train was 
moving off, Robert jumped into the carriage.” 

“Leaving Stella on the platform?” 

“Yes.” 

“What became of her?” 

“I don’t know. I lost sight of her among the crowd 
on the platform.” 

Lady Mercer looked suspicious. “Perhaps there was 
another boat train.” 

“It was the last, and it was their final parting. I could 
see that-” 

Kathleen faltered, palpitating and on the verge of 
tears. Lady Mercer seemed heartless to her with her 
interminable questions. But Lady Mercer was far from 
heartless. She had begun by now to have more than an 
inkling of the true situation, and she marvelled at her 
own past blindness. She ceased her questions. Kathleen’s 
eyes as well as her w r ords had taught her something. She 
pondered deeply. She was amazed at this new turn of 



ON THE SAME DAY 


291 


events, and very worried, not about Kathleen, but Stella. 
Certainly matters could not be allowed to remain at that, 
but she did not know what she ought to do. The morning 
might bring news. 

It did, in the shape of a few lines from Stella, saying 
that she had decided to leave Redways for a while, and 
would write again when she was more settled. The note- 
paper bore the stamp of a hotel in Piccadilly where she 
had once stayed with Sir Roger. That was satisfactory 
as far as it went, but it left Lady Mercer more puzzled 
than ever. To go off like this, without a word, and to 
leave such a place as Redways! Vainly Lady Mercer 
tried to imagine the reason. Kathleen, a girl herself, and 
in love, partly guessed it, but Lady Mercer was neither 
a girl nor in love. She sought for precedent for such an 
action in the memories, of a long life, but found none. It 
was highly improper and inconsiderate behaviour on 
Stella’s part. As Sir Roger’s widow her place was at 
Redways, especially w r ith Robert away. There could be 
no doubt of that. Such an extraordinary thing to do! 
Lady Mercer felt that modern womanhood was indeed 
beyond her. Here was Kathleen, too, of all girls, running 
up to London in this way. 

These reflections occurred in her mind at the breakfast- 
table—a very late one, by the way—and on this morning 
she had found Kathleen at her lonely meal. The girl sat 
gravely in her place, with lowered eyes. Lady Mercer 
turned her glasses on Stella’s letter again, lying open be¬ 
side her plate. It seemed to give her an idea. 

“My dear,” she broke out, “we had better go up to 
London and look into this.” 

Kathleen assented to that proposal with an apathy 
which perhaps reflected the state of her feelings. They 
went up by train, and Lady Mercer passed the time in 


292 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


picturing a repentant Stella, brought to a sense of duty 
by reason, returning with her to Redways in the evening. 
Alas, for such hopes! A clerk at the hotel informed the 
dismayed lady that Lady Lynngarth had left the hotel 
immediately after breakfast, carrying her dressing-case. 
The idea of a titled lady leaving the hotel on foot seemed 
to pain the clerk to relate, and the incident was not with¬ 
out its effect on Lady Mercer. She asked had Lady 
Lynngarth left no address to which letters could be for¬ 
warded? The clerk’s answer was a suave negative. He 
added that the commissionaire had called a taxi for Lady 
Lynngarth, but she preferred to walk. Lady Mercer and 
Kathleen exchanged glances. The reason was plain to 
both of them. 

“We must go and see Colonel Glenluce,” said Lady 
Mercer, when they were outside again. 

Kathleen demurred. “His time must be valuable,” she 
said, “and we have taken up such a lot of it lately.” 

This idea provoked a smile from Lady Mercer. “We 
will chance that,” she said. “My dear, what’s the sense 
of having friends in high positions unless one makes use 
of them? That’s what they’re there for. Colonel Glen¬ 
luce is just the man to help us find Stella. He has all 
Scotland Yard at his beck and call. He has only to 
lift his finger, and the thing is done.” 

Colonel Glenluce received them with courtesy, and did 
not seem to mind in the least the intrusion on his valuable 
time. They were ushered into his office immediately, with¬ 
out any waiting. It was a large and comfortable room, 
and Glenluce sat at a large table covered with speaking 
tubes and telephones. He came forward to greet them, 
shook hands, seated them in comfortable chairs, then 
composed himself in a grave listening attitude as Lady 
Mercer poured out her tale. When it was finished he 


ON THE SAME DAY 


293 


asked her a few questions, which Lady Mercer answered 
to the best of her ability. She had Stella’s letter with 
her, and showed it to him. She had evidently acted on 
the spur of the moment, as she had taken very few clothes, 
according to her maid. No; she had no friends in Lon¬ 
don, so far as Lady Mercer knew; certainly none she could 
stay with in this unceremonious fashion. Money? Lady 
Mercer shrugged her shoulders. Stella had her own pri¬ 
vate banking account. She named the bank, and Glen- 
luce made a note of it. She had a habit, too, of carrying 
a number of bank-notes in her handbag, so they need be 
under no concern on that account. 

These questions answered, Lady Mercer looked Colonel 
Glenluce in the face. 

“And now,” she said, “what do you suggest doing?” 

Glenluce appeared perturbed. “Lady Lynngarth is her 
own mistress, you know. Her actions cannot be called 
in question because she chooses to leave Redways.” 

“I know that,” responded Lady Mercer. “But as Sir 
Roger’s widow she has certain duties and responsibilities. 
She cannot simply run off in this fashon without letting 
us know where she is. There is the question of the will 
and the estate, and things like that. It will lead to all 
sorts of complications—legal and otherwise—if she van¬ 
ishes like this and leaves us in the dark.” 

“Lady Lynngarth ought to let you know where she is,” 
he replied. “I think you are justified in taking some 
action to find her if she does not communicate with 
you.” 

“I want her found at once,” said Lady Mercer, with 
emphasis. “Can’t you help us?” 

“I don’t know what we can do—in the open,” was 
his cautious response. “Of course you wish to avoid 
publicity.” Lady Mercer nodded emphatically. “In any 



294 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


case, we are in a position of delicacy—extremely so. 
Legally, Lady Lynngarth is completely mistress of her 
own actions. On your side the position is also awkward. 
It is necessary that she should be found without delay. 
I may say that I don’t quite know what I can do. I 
could, if you wish, have some guarded inquiries made-” 

Lady Mercer caught eagerly at the word. “The very 
thing!” she exclaimed. “We must avoid scandal as far 
as possible, but people are sure to talk in any case. 
We shall be asked where Stella is, and what are we to 
say?” 

“You can say she is staying with friends.” 

“I thought of that, but if she does not return?” 

“Leave this in my hands,” he replied reassuringly. “I 
will endeavour to find her for you. That is the first thing. 
And now forget all about it for the present, and let me 
take you out and give you some tea.” 

They had tea, and he saw them off from Waterloo 
afterwards, standing on the station and smiling after 
them till the train carried them away. “A gentleman and 
our best friend,” said the older lady to Kathleen, as she 
waved her hand in farewell. “A rare type nowadays; 
more’s the pity,” she added, settling herself comfortably 
in her corner seat for a nap. “He has resources too. 
That’s the best of a good official position. He’ll find 
Stella quickly enough. What a comfort to know such a 
man.” She nodded complacently, and closed her eyes. 

Glenluce, returning to his office, was not quite so sure. 
On the way there, and later that night, he paid unspoken 
tribute to Lady Mercer’s sagacity as displayed during his 
recent visit to Redways. It was true she had subsequently 
retracted her words, but Stella’s departure from Redways 
on the day that Robert Lynngarth left England now in¬ 
vested them with a fresh significance too great to be over- 



ON THE SAME DAY 295 

looked. He glimpsed something tragic beneath all this, 
though he had no idea what it was. 

His promise was not forgotten. Next morning he sent 
for Chief Inspector Luckraft. Lady Mercer’s news had 
had the additional effect of reviving his faith in that 
excellent officer. Perhaps, in this queer tangle of events, 
Luckraft had been right after all. Certainly, some things 
had happened at Redways which the recent inquiry had 
not disclosed, and possibly Luckraft had divined aright. 
Glenluce’s first testimony of his renewed faith in the re¬ 
nowned subordinate was to place in his hands the task 
of finding where Lady Lynngarth had gone to. 

“I rely on your perfect discretion in this matter, 
Luckraft,” he murmured. “You will please regard what 
I have imparted to you as confidential, and your investi¬ 
gations also. They are not to be disclosed to your col¬ 
leagues. Report to me personally, in this office, every 
evening.” 

Luckraft, his eyes fixed upon the carpet at his feet, 
assured him that his secretiveness was to be entirely 
relied upon. That assurance covered more than Glenluce 
knew. Luckraft had listened with intense interest to 
his confidence, and had pricked up his ears at the news 
(which Glenluce had deemed it necessary to disclose) that 
Lady Lynngarth’s flight from Redways coincided with 
Sir Robert Lynngarth’s departure from England. The 
zealous officer had appeared in the presence of his superior 
prepared to tell him of his own visit to Redways two 
nights before, and what had taken him there. But, as 
the master of Redways had left England in spite of that, 
Luckraft decided to keep the information to himself for 
the present, as he was not quite sure how Colonel Glenluce 
might regard his action. He wanted a free hand in the 
search for Lady Lynngarth, not only for the purpose of 


296 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


reaching the end of a mystery which had puzzled him, 
but in order to prove to his departmental head that he 
had rebuked him improperly over the case. That rebuke 
still rankled in his breast, for Chief Inspector Luckraft 
had a sensitive soul, despite his man-hunting instincts. 
So he gladly seized the opening offered him to make fur¬ 
ther investigation, and left Glenluce to set about his task 
without delay. 

But the days passed, and brought no news. The re¬ 
sourceful officer, making his nightly reports, had to con¬ 
fess himself at fault. He could find no clue. Lady 
Lynngarth had simply walked out of a London hotel and 
disappeared. 

At Redways Lady Mercer and Kathleen were still 
alone in the old house, and December had reached its 
blackest mood, when the news came that Stella had been 
found. 

Kathleen, returning from a walk in the afternoon, was 
met by Lady Mercer in the hall with an open letter from 
Glenluce in her hand. She kissed the girl and told her. 

“Colonel Glenluce gives no details,” she added. “He 
merely says that he will be down by the first train in the 
morning to tell us all about it.” 

Kathleen was silent. She did not dream then that the 
story Colonel Glenluce had to tell was to start her on 
a journey of many thousand miles across the world in 
the effort to right a grievous wrong. 


CHAPTER XXX 


STELLA 

AFTER all, the guarded inquiries had proved unneces- 
/-% sary. A further letter which Stella wrote to the 
family solicitor after the lapse of a week or so re¬ 
moved anxiety on that score. Mr. Baron was the legal 
guardian of her late husbands worldly affairs, and these 
naturally required much adjustment under the new order. 
It was essential (from the point of view of the law) that 
Mr. Baron should be in touch with the principal bene¬ 
ficiary, and Stella’s letter might be looked upon as a 
prudent recognition of the law’s demands. Mr. Baron, 
to be sure, so regarded it. Then there was an interview 
between solicitor and client of which Glenluce was also 
unaware until Mr. Baron saw fit to make mention of it, 
and the letter, in a confidential sort of way, to the execu¬ 
tor of the late baronet’s estate. 

In that capacity Colonel Glenluce asked for the favour 

of Lady Lynngarth’s address for the ladies at Redways. 

Mr. Baron deeply regretted that he was not at liberty to 

disclose it. For the present Lady Lynngarth wished to 

remain in seclusion and entire change of surroundings 

until she had recovered from her recent sad loss. That 

was how Mr. Baron understood her desire, and the heart 

of his legal bosom evidently sympathized with it, for 

there was sentiment in his glance as he spoke. Glenluce 

asked if Lady Lynngarth was in London. Mr. Baron, 

joining the tips of his fingers together, and looking at 

the anxious gentleman over the top of them with a non- 

297 




298 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


committal legal face, answered with an air of extreme 
caution that for the present Lady Lynngarth w T as staying 
in the—er—metropolis. Beyond that he could not go. 
And w r ith that Glenluce had to be content. 

This knowledge came to him after Luckraft had 
searched high and low for Stella. Glenluce stopped the 
search immediately. It was an indignity for a woman 
in Stella’s position, though at the same time the reasons 
for her action remained an utter mystery to him. What 
he knew of women and their w T ays w r as confined to the 
conventional type, w r ho stuck to the beaten track. Stella’s 
behaviour was so unusual that he could not guess what 
it meant. As Sir Roger’s executor he felt in a measure 
responsible for his w T idow, and he was ill-satisfied with 
the situation as it stood. Stella might have remained 
in the peace and protection of a wonderful home, in 
spacious contentment, surrounded by the treasures which 
the Lynngarths had amassed. In imagination he saw 
her there, her fair head crowned with the dignity of a 
sorrow not altogether hopeless. 

Instead, she had gone away, sacrificing her social posi¬ 
tion as mistress of Redways for an obscure existence in 
London, a place where humanity was reduced to the in¬ 
significance of insects by the sheer force of numbers. He 
did not like to think of Stella thus. She w 7 as a person¬ 
ality, a being of gracious charm, and the most beautiful 
thing he had known. She occupied his mind and heart 
in those days. He spent lonely evenings in his flat over¬ 
looking Green Park, thinking about her, over a solitary 
cigar, and wondering where she had hidden herself. If 
she had left England he could have understood it better. 
Robert Lynngarth had gone, but she remained. They 
had parted at Fenchurch Street. What did it mean? 


STELLA 299 

Glenluce could not guess. His bewilderment was summed 
up in a half-spoken thought. 

“I do not understand it at all.” 

He did not like it. The outcome of the disturbing 
thoughts which agitated him was that he decided to write 
a letter to her. That cost him more anxious thought. 
He said nothing about her departure from Redways. 
In formal terms, as the appointed guardian of her 
worldly interests, and also (this was a happy inspiration) 
as a friend of Sir Robert Lynngarth’s, he assured her 
that his services were at her disposal any time she might 
be in need of them. He hesitated over the wording of the 
last phrase, but finally let it stand. He hesitated again 
over the signature, then signed “very sincerely yours,” 
with his name, Philip Glenluce. The result did not please 
him. He thought it stiff, as perhaps it was, but it was 
kinder than he knew. Although he did not guess it then, 
he had used the most potent appeal he could have made 
to Stella. 

The letter written, it was sent to Mr. Baron under 
cover, with the compliments of Colonel Glenluce, coupled 
with the request that it be forwarded to Lady Lynngarth 
without delay. There was no reply, though Glenluce 
hardly expected one. It seemed as though Stella was 
determined to guard her secret, whatever it was, by 
silence. Afterwards he learnt that his letter had reached 
her and touched her, and, in the long run, led her to 
send for him when she received that strange warning 
which her love interpreted aright. But more than two 
months passed before that moment came—two months in 
which she gave no sign. Through that period Glenluce 
waited, vaguely expectant, and at Redways Kathleen and 
Lady Mercer waited also. 



300 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


December came in with rain and wind, and two weeks 
of a bleak month slipped away. Glenluce had promised 
Lady Mercer to spend Christmas at Redways, and the 
time for his visit drew near. 

It chanced one evening that he had dressed to dine 
out when the telephone in his study rang. He went to 
it, and some one asked for Colonel Glenluce in a voice so 
remote that it sounded like a person speaking from an¬ 
other planet. Then the name of Lady Lynngarth, 
dropped, as it were, from a great height, startled him 
into a painful anxiety to understand the message. He 
gathered at length that the speaker was the matron of 
a nursing home in South Kensington where Lady Lynn¬ 
garth was. Lady Lynngarth would like to see Colonel 
Glenluce. Would Colonel Glenluce make an appointment. 
At once? That was very kind. Lady Lynngarth would 
be pleased. 

Glenluce wasted no time on unnecessary questions. 
Stella wanted him, and that was enough. He would have 
obeyed her summons if it had come from the other end 
of the world. A taxi had just been brought to the door 
by his servant for his dinner engagement, and Glenluce 
gave him the address of the nursing home. 

As he drove there his mind was assailed with fore¬ 
bodings. Stella ill, and in a nursing home! What did 
it mean? He had not waited to ask. Perhaps she was 
very ill, dying. . . . 

He endeavoured to shake off these dark thoughts, but 
they remained with him until they reached the home, a 
large house of handsome externals, in a quiet street near 
South Kensington Station. A porter opened the door 
of the taxi and ushered him in. There was no delay. 
The matron hastened downstairs to meet him. She was 
tall and portly, and had been handsome. A woman of 


STELLA 


301 


refinement obviously. She met his anxious inquiries with 
calming assurances. No; Lady Lynngarth was not seri¬ 
ously ill, but she was run down, and kept her room. The 
doctors (there had been a specialist) were agreed that 
her constitution was not strong, but there was nothing 
organic. Sir James Purdwell was attending her. She 
had come to the nursing home a week ago, on his advice. 
Symptoms? Only a slight cough, and occasional fatigue 
and listlessness. She was highly strung and perhaps a 
little fragile, and the cold winds seemed to try her. Sir 
James thought a warmer climate would be better for her 
lungs in the winter. Not yet, though—a little later on. 
He wanted to build up her strength first. 

With these reassuring words the matron took Glenluce 
up a handsomely carpeted staircase to a room on the first 
floor, where she knocked. 

“Come in,” said a voice which made Glenluce’s heart 
beat a little faster. 

They went in. 

“Colonel Glenluce, Lady Lynngarth,” said the ma¬ 
tron with a smile, and turned away and left them 
alone. 

He had expected to find her in bed, but she was lying 
on a couch in a rest gown, her fair hair loose and tied 
with ribbon, like a child’s. Like a child she looked to 
Glenluce, on the big couch, rather pale and ethereal per¬ 
haps, but beautiful as ever, recalling a remote and happier 
vision of herself as he remembered her, shortly after her 
marriage. He had expected to find her very ill, and the 
relief was great. Gently he took the hand she held out 
to him, then sat down beside her. 

“It was kind of you to come so quickly,” she said with 
a smile—the tremulous ghost of her former smile. 

“You wanted me,” he replied simply. 


302 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“Yes,” she said. “I wish to tell you something—be¬ 
fore it is too late.” 

He moved uneasily in his chair, doubtful what these 
words meant. 

“I lie here, and think, and think.” She clasped her 
hands despairingly, and looked at him with eyes of en¬ 
treaty. “It is about Robert. I fear for him. He has 
gone away—back to his wretched lonely life—through 
me.” 

“Do not talk thus, Lady Lynngarth,” he admonished. 

But she went on as if she had not heard him: 

“I should have stopped him. When I saw him off 
at the station he told me that the thing which had driven 
him from England twelve years ago no longer existed. 
In spite of that I let him go. But I did not see every¬ 
thing so clearly then.” 

She broke off in agitation. Glenluce kept silence. 

“He is Lynngarth of Redways. His place is at Red- 
ways. Redways is his—his.” 

“I wished him to stay,” he said simply. 

She looked at him with misty eyes. 

“I know,” she whispered. “You were kind and good, 
and tried to help him. He told me. But it was not 
what you think that took him away—not at the last. 
He went away because he would not tell—about me. 
After he had gone, when I had time to think, that came 
to me more clearly, and I wondered what I ought to do. 
At first I thought of going back to Redways and telling 
Lady Mercer, but I could not. Then I got a cold, and 
it made me so tired and stupid that I didn’t seem to 
care what happened. I was ill, I think.” 

She looked ill at that moment. Glenluce’s eyes rested 
on her sympathetically. She moved restlessly. 

“When I got better my thoughts came back. I could 



STELLA 


303 


not endure them. I was here, alone, with nothing to 
do but think. So I asked them to send for you. I had 
your letter, you know. Will you hear what I have to 
tell you? You have time—time to listen, I mean? For 
it will take me a long while to tell you all.” 

You had better not talk too much, or excite yourself 
until you are better.” 

“I must!” The words came from her suddenly. “He 
has lost twelve years of his life. Besides, I have another 
fear-” 

She sank back, covering her face. Regaining her com¬ 
posure, she looked at him with calmer eyes. 

“Do you believe in presentiments, Colonel Glenluce?” 

“Sometimes,” he said slowly. 

“I have a presentiment about Robert. It haunts me.” 
She shivered a little. “You must help me to help him. 
I want him to be happy.” Her lips quivered. “He has 
done so much for me, and he has been wronged all 
through. Will you listen to me, please? Closer—come 
closer still.” 

He obeyed, bending his head over her upturned face. 
From her cloud of scented hair she looked at him rather, 
wistfully. 

“I must begin a long way back.” 

Glenluce nodded gently. She hesitated a little, breath¬ 
ing fast. 

“I knew Robert years ago—not as Robert Lynngarth, 
but as James Raymond. It was in a distant country.” 

Glenluce, grave and still beside her, knew she was 
strung up to what she conceived to be the duty of unveil¬ 
ing her heart’s secret at the eleventh hour. The room 
was very quiet, but the murmur of the traffic in the street 
below reached them from the window like the stirring of 
a distant wind. 




304 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


Hurriedly at first, in a voice barely above a whisper, 
but growing stronger and clearer as she proceeded, Stella 
began her story. It concerned three people: herself, Rob¬ 
ert Lynngarth, and another man whom she called Marist. 
If she spoke little of Marist, it was because of her evident 
overpowering fear of him; not because he did not enter 
into her story so prominently. He was there, all the 
time, a menacing and threatening shape; in deep shadow 
perhaps, but more to be feared on that account. 

The parts played by the three were inextricably inter¬ 
woven; afar at the outset, then nearer home. They were 
each involved in the narrative from first to last, but in 
retrospection Robert Lynngarth stood out, or James 
Raymond, as she then knew him. He filled the distant 
stage where the tangle of events began, a wonderful and 
chivalrous figure in her eyes, appearing by magic in a 
far-off spot to rescue her. She did not make so clear 
how she came to be there, and in the predicament in 
which Robert Lynngarth found her. Much of that part 
of her story she left for Glenluce to surmise—for his 
intelligence to understand. 

It began, as she said, in a distant land; a remote coun¬ 
try of which English people and the world at large knew 
very little, though the British flag floated over its sun- 
dried plains. The first act of the drama was set at a 
place called Dawnia, a straggling inland town five hun¬ 
dred miles from the coast, in the midst of thinly wooded 
hills, on the banks of a sluggish river which wound round 
the town like a yellow snake trying to strangle it out of 
existence. The place stood out in her memory. It was the 
terminus of the railway line with the coast. Beyond it 
was solitude and the unknown. 

Here she first met the man she knew as James Ray¬ 
mond. He seemed to have had no particular business in 



STELLA 


305 


Dawnia. His turning up there was merely an incident 
in a life of purposeless wandering he had led since leaving 
England six years before, drifting into all sorts of 
strange out-of-the-way places as chance took him. But 
this time he happened to be in funds, with several hun¬ 
dred pounds in his pocket put there by a lucky lottery 
ticket which he had bought on the coast only the week 
before. Dawnia offered opportunities for getting rid of 
this money. It was race week, and visitors from the sur¬ 
rounding country-side had flocked in for the races. James 
Raymond was one of them. He put up at the leading 
hotel, full of bookmakers and racing men, who played 
billiards until far into the night, disturbing the peace 
of the solitudes with the popping of corks, loud laughter, 
and interminable talk of horses until night paled in the 
hills and the first sad streaks of dawn appeared. 

One night of enforced association with this kind of 
thing seemed to have been more than enough for James 
Raymond. His temperament was solitary, and not con¬ 
vivial. Drinking, hilarity, and horse-racing held little 
attraction for him. Directly after dinner on the second 
night he left the hotel to take a stroll through the town 
in the warm evening air. 

There were amusements in the place, drawn thither 
for the races. These consisted of a circus under canvas, 
a cinema, and a theatrical company appearing in a hall 
which did duty for a theatre when travelling companies 
visited Dawnia. James Raymond, wandering idly along 
the principal street on this sultry summer evening, paused 
to peruse the playbills displayed at the doors of these 
different attractions. He passed the picture palace and 
the canvas tent, but stopped at the brightly lit entrance 
to the theatre, where a bill announced that “The Blue 
Bats” were to give an entertainment within. James Ray- 


306 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


mond had no particular wish to see “The Blue Bats,” but 
time was hanging heavy on his hands, so he bought a 
ticket and went in. 

“The Blue Bats” were announced on the programme 
as a company “fresh from a triumphant tour of the East¬ 
ern cities,” but they failed to please James Raymond. 
The show struck him as a very poor one, and he was 
about to leave in disgust when the “star” turn came 
on. He decided to wait for it. 

The turn, it appeared, was an Eastern dance, in which 
Monsieur Marist and Mademoiselle Chauve-Souris, the 
famous classical dancers, appeared respectively in the 
parts of “Le Tigre” and “The Flitter-mouse.” So ran 
the programme. James Raymond, sitting alone in the 
front row of stalls, w T as observed to smile faintly as he 
lifted his eyes from the programme to fix them on the 
stage. 

In keeping with his supposed part, Marist wore a 
tiger’s skin, complete, with a ferocious head which con¬ 
cealed his features from the audience. The girl dancer 
also wore a hood with ears, but her face was visible. 
The man was the principal performer, and did most of 
the work. He was an excellent dancer—a Russian trained 
in the continental school—and his feline imitation was so 
realistic that the spectator in the front row found it 
difficult to believe that it was not some great cat which 
prowled and sprang about the darkened stage in pursuit 
of the flitter-mouse. He said afterwards that it required 
a strong effort on his part to sit still and watch the 
striped form leaping at his dancing partner. The girl’s 
part was to dance just out of the tiger’s reach. The 
stage effects were well managed. Marist knew his busi¬ 
ness thoroughly, and heightened the effect of the bizarre 
dance with music equally weird. 


STELLA 


307 


Apart from the empty front row of stalls, there was a 
good house that night, and Marist was pleased to prolong 
the dance beyond its usual limits. At last it was over, 
to James Raymond’s relief, and the lights were turned 
up. At that moment he first saw the girl dancer’s face 
distinctly. Across the footlights their eyes met. 

He w r as struck by the expression of her look. She was 
lying near the front of the stage, not far from where he 
was sitting, with the male dancer standing over her to 
form an effective finale or stage picture. Across the in¬ 
tervening space her eyes sought and held his own with 
a gaze which penetrated into his very soul. Into the 
mind of the man who called himself James Raymond 
leaped the strange notion that her glance conveyed to 
his manhood some poignant unspoken appeal for help. 
He cursed himself for a romantic fool, but the idea re¬ 
mained. Then the curtain dropped, and hid the girl 
from view. James Raymond rose to his feet and left 
the hall, still haunted by that look. 

“He told me all this—afterw r ards,” said Stella softly, 
and for the first time Glenluce realized that the girl 
dancer of that bygone night w T as herself. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


A KNIGHT-ERRANT OF DAWNIA 

T* ES; he told me later what his thoughts were,” 
V she went on softly, “but I partly guessed them 
as our eyes met. It is long ago now, but still 
vivid in my mind: that night, and afterwards.” 

A sigh passed her lips. She w r as silent, and Glenluce 
had nothing to say. In a flash Stella had shown him the 
depth of her feeling for the man she had first known as 
James Raymond, telling her story in a manner which was 
a revelation of the completeness of her absorption in him. 
She pictured that distant first meeting through his eyes, 
like one repeating a story which did not concern her, as 
if he counted for all and she for nothing. And, indeed, 
he was everything to her. The miracle of her love shone 
in her eyes now, filling them with light. 

Now she spoke of her own impressions of that first 
recontre because it seemed necessary to explain them. 
His look across the footlights that night had thrilled her. 
She read many things into it: kindness, regret, and an 
infinite pity. His eyes, as she hesitatingly expressed 
it, searched her soul. She left the theatre to pass a 
sleepless night, with those wonderful eyes looking at her 
in the darkness of her room. She spent the next day 
wondering if he would be at the performance in the eve¬ 
ning. But he did not come. She scanned the theatre 
eagerly, thinking he might be in some other part of the 
house, but he was not there. 

She danced badly that night. Her dancing partner 

308 


A KNIGHT-ERRANT OF DAWNIA 309 

was very angry with her when the curtain fell, and sub¬ 
sequently. Marist had a savage temper, and he never 
allowed her to forget that she was in his power. Stella 
slurred over this part of her story, but her listener gath¬ 
ered that she was completely dominated by the man who 
danced as a tiger, and went in deadly fear of him. On 
this night his behaviour was so cruel and outrageous that 
she fled from him in terror, running out of the hotel— 
it was not the one where James Raymond was staying— 
down the broad veranda steps into the empty uneven 
street which curved white before her in the shadow of the 
sleeping night. 

With one backward look at the veranda she ran down 
the street. It was moonlight, and the white, lonely road 
stretched before her eyes for a great distance. It took 
her beyond the scattered houses of the town, out into 
the primeval solitude of the bush. She went on and on, 
not knowing where she ran, the road unwinding its length 
before her like an endless ribbon. 

Ultimately she reached a bridge spanning the river; a 
gaunt skeleton of steel and iron which cast a fretwork of 
shadows across her path. As she crossed it her shoes 
clicked sharply on its trellised surface, and she could see 
the water gleaming, dark and mysterious, far beneath. 
On the other side she paused, breathless, to recover her 
breath. She had run far, and she did not know where 
she was. 

By this time she was very frightened, and wished herself 
safe back at the hotel. The spot was lonesome, and 
lapped in an intense stillness which gripped her senses 
with fear. After a while she seemed to hear strange 
rustlings in the trees, and once the silence was broken 
by a faint splash in the river beneath her. She was 
trying to summon up courage to retrace her steps, when 


310 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


her eyes fell on the figure of a man coming rapidly across 
the bridge towards her. 

At that unexpected sight her nerves failed her alto¬ 
gether. Blind with terror, she plunged down through 
the undergrowth which lined the deep sloping bank of 
the river, until she was pulled up by oozing mud and 
the murmur of water. Here she crouched in a fringe of 
stunted trees on the brink, the shadowy bank above her, 
the river slipping noiselessly past her feet. 

How long she was there she did not know. Probably 
not more than a minute or two, though it seemed much 
longer. Then she saw a man’s form emerge from the 
undergrowth near her, and make straight for the group 
of trees where she was crouching. The moonlight fell 
full on his face and she recognized him—recognized him 
with profound astonishment and a wildly beating heart. 
She knew him at once for the man who had been in the 
front row of the theatre on the previous night. 

He advanced and spoke to her, and it seemed quite 
natural that he should. She was not afraid of him— 
not a bit—any more than she felt surprise at his having 
followed her there. She listened to his explanation in 
silence. He had been out for a stroll in the moonlight, 
and was sitting resting in the shadow of the bridge when 
he saw a woman’s figure flitting towards him. She passed 
so close to him that he could have touched her, and he 
recognized the girl he had seen dancing at the theatre. 
A distraught girl running at full speed at night along a 
deserted road was a spectacle which put meditation to 
flight. He got up and looked after her, watched her to 
the other side of the bridge, and saw her clamber down 
the steep bank towards the water. Then he came after 
her. 

She assured him in a whisper that he was mistaken. 


A KNIGHT-ERRANT OF DAWNIA 


311 


It was not as he supposed. She had not gone there to 
drown herself. He looked at her doubtfully, and asked 
what had brought her running to such a spot at a time 
when all girls should be asleep, dreaming happy dreams. 
She attempted to reply, but began to cry instead. He 
was sympathetic and gentle. He let her have her cry 
out, and, then asked her what her trouble was, and if he 
could help her in any way. She shook her head, but he 
looked at her in the moonlight—she could always see 
that look when she thought of him—then said quietly 
that he had thought of her more than once since last 
night, and believed that she was unhappy and in dis¬ 
tress. Coming across her again, thus, made him feel 
responsible for her, in a way, so she had better tell him 
what was wrong. 

His manner of speaking was compelling—fascinatingly 
so—but at first she hesitated. Not because she feared to 
confide in him—oh, no! For other, quite different rea¬ 
sons. But her loneliness and misery overcame her reti¬ 
cence. At heart she wished to tell him. There was some¬ 
thing about him which stirred her feelings and impelled 
her complete trust. She was quite friendless, and as 
lonely and unhappy a girl as that great strange land 
contained. The hour and the situation brought them 
closer to each other, and her feminine perception told 
her that he was not like other men. These things helped 
to break down the barriers in her mind. She found her¬ 
self telling him all about herself and her life. 

She told her story hurriedly, assuming a composure 
she did not feel, standing beside him at the brink of the 
river which slipped past them stealthily as a snake. 
They had left the fringe of trees, and stood in an open 
space where the moonlight revealed them and their two 
faces: hers tearful, his intent and listening, looking at 


312 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


her from time to time with eyes sad and troubled as her 
own, but kind and gentle beyond belief. - 

She was in that mood when a woman gives herself away 
utterly to a sympathetic listener. Hers was the chronicle 
of a girl who had strayed outside the high wall of con¬ 
vention, and could not get back into the enclosure. The 
distance from beginning life as the daughter of a Devon 
curate to the predicament in which she found herself 
that night is not so great, once the first step is conceded. 
In Stella’s case a soft and yielding disposition and the 
glamour of the stage appeared to have been the predis¬ 
posing causes. Against her father’s advice she had left 
home to go on the stage. Her youth and good looks 
gained her a part in a company leaving England to play 
in South Africa. Soon after they arrived there she made 
the discovery that her histrionic ability was of less im¬ 
portance in the eyes of the manager than her womanhood. 
She resisted his advances, as she had been virtuously 
brought up, but she did not leave the company on that 
account. She had no money, and nowhere to go. The 
company went on tour in the interior, and became 
stranded. She found herself alone and friendless in an 
unknown land. 

She managed to make her way back to the coast, and 
it was there she met Marist, the Russian dancer, with 
whom James Raymond found her. With him she trav¬ 
elled far, ultimately reaching the land of sun-dried plains. 
From the first Marist seemed to have gained the strong¬ 
est sort of influence over her: an evil domination based 
largely on the terror he inspired in her. He formed a 
touring company, and engaged and trained her to dance 
in the act with himself. It was very successful at first, 
and proved the leading attraction wherever they played. 
After a while she grew to dislike Marist and weary of 


A KNIGHT-ERRANT OF DAWNIA 


313 


her bondage (it soon came to be that), but did not know 
how to end it. How the Russian came to acquire such 
domination over her she did not say. He loved her, it 
appeared, in a jealous fierce-eyed way, but she vowed 
that she had never felt any love for him—only fear. 
She submitted to his terrorizing sway because of that, 
and also, perhaps, because she was of the type unable 
to fend for herself. Marist had taught her all she knew 
of the stage, and she was, in a sense, dependent upon 
him, much as she feared him and wanted to leave him. 
That required more nerve than she possessed. Her earlier 
embittering experience had taught her the difficulty of 
obtaining theatrical engagements in a strange land, and 
she was haunted with the idea that Marist woiild seek 
her out and find her wherever she went. Thinking thus, 
she had sunk into a state of despair at a life from which 
there seemed no escape, and that night her nerves had 
given way. 

Such was the story Stella had told James Raymond 
on the banks of a far-off river six years before. The 
scene and its surroundings had made an unforgettable 
impression on her mind; an impression which in some 
subtle way she contrived to impart to Glenluce. Sitting 
in that pretty room, with the sounds of a great city 
vibrating outside, he seemed to see it all quite vividly: 
the stillness, the solitude, an empty landscape drenched 
in white, and two figures standing by a river’s brink with 
the high angle of the bridge above their heads. 

He saw in her a supplicant, unconsciously, perhaps, 
but still a supplicant, and in Robert Lynngarth—her 
James Raymond—the rare type of human being born to 
shoulder others’ burdens. He had compassion and soft¬ 
ness of heart for the weak: tragic weaknesses, these, in a 
masculine make-up! And that night, six years before, 


314 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


he accepted the burden which Stella laid (if uncon¬ 
sciously) upon him. 

When she had finished relating her story, James Ray¬ 
mond had asked her what she was going to do. She had 
replied that she did not know, but she did not want to 
go back to the hotel and Marist. She had not told James 
Raymond everything about that night, but Glenluce, lis¬ 
tening to her now, had the idea that he had guessed the 
hidden part, and felt that in a sense he was responsible 
for what had happened to her. Besides, there was his 
boundless capacity of sympathy for the weak, and Stella’s 
helplessness had no doubt moved him profoundly. Friend¬ 
less and despairing, she had thrown herself on his ready 
sympathy, clinging to it like a child putting confiding 
fingers into the strong grasp of a grown-up. He had 
probably accepted her trust in the same spirit. He had 
kept silence for a while, considering (as it afterwards 
appeared) how best to help her. Then he asked her why 
she did not return to England. She told him that Marist 
saw to it that she never had enough money to leave him. 
He replied: “If it is a question of money, I can manage 
that. If you were back in England you would be all 
right.” 

He had made this proposal to her quite simply, sitting 
on the river bank with his back against a tree, looking 
at her in the moonlight. The offer almost took her breath 
away, and she stared hard at him to see if he were jest¬ 
ing. Afterwards, when she came to know him better, she 
understood that it was a natural thing for him to do. 
“I have more money than I know how to spend, at pres¬ 
ent,” he had assured her with a smile, “and as I won 
it in a lottery you need have no scruples about borrow¬ 
ing a little to take you back to England. You had 
much better return home to your friends, instead of 


A KNIGHT-ERRANT OF DAWNIA 


315 


staying in a country like this, where you’re bound to go 
to the wall in the long run.” She had replied that her 
father w T as dead and she was quite alone in the world. 
His reply was: “The more reason why you should go 
home. England is a friend to all women. England holds 
comfort and protection for you.” 

England, home, comfort, protection! Words with a 
glamour, these, for an English girl whose weary feet had 
w T andered far and led her into dark places. At that 
moment she did not guess how utterly she had given her 
heart to the man w’ho had proffered this advice. Her 
hesitation about accepting the offer came principally 
from her fear that she could not get away from Marist. 
But James Raymond laughed that idea to scorn. He 
promised to take care of her and look after her until she 
was safe on board the steamer for England. All she 
would have to do was to keep up her courage and trust 
herself to him. It was quite a simple matter to leave 
Dawnia without the Russian dancer knowing: merely a 
question of walking three or four miles across country 
to the first station down the line, and catching the train 
there at daybreak. She could have some breakfast at 
this place while he returned to Dawnia for his things, and 
as she didn’t wish to go back, she could buy whatever she 
needed w T hen they reached the coast. 

She accepted his offer as he made it, quite simply, 
and without any tiresome effusions of gratitude. Their 
temperaments were very much akin at bottom: impulsive, 
sanguine, unchilled by the experiences of life, which had 
not treated them kindly. 

They sat there, on the bank of the river, until it was 
time to start for the station. That part of their enter¬ 
prise was quite easily accomplished. He piloted her 
through the bush by moonlight, and just as dawn was 


316 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


breaking they reached a small straggling collection of 
houses springing up in the midst of great trees; a place 
smaller than Dawnia, but, in its way, a counterpart of 
the larger town they had left behind. The train was 
not due there for a couple of hours. James Raymond 
had time to carry out his plan of returning to Dawnia 
for his goods, and come back in the train to pick up 
Stella at the wayside station. They reached the coast— 
which was the capital—on the following day. 

At the coastal city they stayed at an hotel overlooking 
the harbour. There was no boat to England for a fort¬ 
night, and they spent their days together. During that 
time Stella lived in constant apprehension of Marist find¬ 
ing her. James Raymond laughed at her, and told her 
she need not bother about the Russian now. He would 
stay with her until she was safe—until the boat sailed. 
But the fear remained. 

It was during the association of this fortnight that 
she grew to love him so completely that she was never 
able to put him out of her heart again. She had loved 
him from the first, actually, but it was not until those 
final days of sunshine by the sea that the full revelation 
had come to her. The joy of that awakening was stifled 
by the knowledge that each day of happiness with him 
brought closer the time for her departure to England. 
She dreaded the moment of separation, but it drew nearer 
and nearer, a grim and inexorable date. 

The attitude of James Raymond gave her no reason 
to hope that he loved her. He had raised her, and given 
her back self-respect, but apparently he had no love to 
offer her. She had trusted herself to his care with per¬ 
haps a little inward girlish perturbation (knowing some¬ 
thing of the ways of men), and he respected her trust 



A KNIGHT-ERRANT OF DAWNIA 317 

m a manner too absolute to please her. He was unfail¬ 
ing in his kindness and goodness to her, but he returned 
her wistful looks with eyes which never suggested love. 
Throughout those days he remained an unknown figure 
to her, self-contained, a man who lived in a world of his 
ow r n. She could not guess his thoughts, nor form any 
just conception of the soul behind his secret reserve. 

In a fever of tension her own control gave way. Two 
days before the departure of the boat she told him she 
loved him, and begged him not to send her away from 
him. They were sitting in the tropical gardens which 
overlooked the blue waters of the bay, where a big white 
steamer—the steamer for England—was taking in coal. 
He patted her hand gently and told her that she must 
not think of him like that. Love, he said, was not for 
him. There were reasons in his life—he did not say 
what they were—which barred love and marriage for him. 
She told him she did not wdsh him to marry her. She 
only wanted him to keep her with him and not send her 
back alone to England, where she would never see him 
again. He was moved by her appeal, but he let her 
understand that his lot was a solitary one. “You must 
go back to England, Stella, dear,” he had said. “There, 
with your beauty and affection, you will meet some one 
better able to take care of you, and you will forget all 
this.” She had clung to him, sobbing, telling him that 
she could never love anyone as she loved him. 

Two days afterwards he saw her off by the steamer. 
That was another scene in her life which would never 
fade from her memory. She had to go on board the 
night before, but he was to be at the wharf in the morning, 
before the ship sailed, to say good-bye. She was up 
early, on the look out for him, and when she saw his tall 



318 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


figure approaching she ran down the gangway onto the 
pier to meet him. They walked away from the bustle 
and the throng, and stood together talking, a little dis¬ 
tance away, talking platitudes, as people do when about 
to be separated by thousands of miles, perhaps never to 
meet again. She kept sad eyes on his face. If he had 
raised his finger at the last moment she would have 
stayed. But he did nothing of the kind. The precious 
minutes slipped away. He hoped she would be comfort¬ 
able on board. She said the ship was not very full, but 
there seemed to be some nice people among the passen¬ 
gers. The lady who shared her state room had been very 
kind, and appeared to have taken a fancy to her. She 
was a wealthy childless widow named Dester, and she 
was very pleased that she and the girl were to be com¬ 
panions on the voyage home. 

Stella did most of the talking, and James Raymond 
listened with a grave encouraging smile. She was going 
to write to him from every port, and he was to send 
to the post office for her letters. He would write to 
her . . . often, often? She would send out her English 
address as soon as she had one, and always she would 
remember him and his goodness. So her talk ran, rap¬ 
idly, nervously, in the effort to keep herself up. A voice 
roared out aboard, ordering all passengers to leave the 
ship. She felt herself going white to the lips, knowing 
what that meant, without his murmured words: “You’ll 
have to go aboard, little girl.” She clung to his arm as 
he took her to the gangway. 

Aboard, some one was playing Tosti’s “Good-bye” on 
a key-bugle. “Good-bye for ever, good-bye, good-bye, 
good-bye.” The notes floated out as the liner swung 
away from the pier. People clustered on the pier, waving 


A KNIGHT-ERRANT OF DAWNIA 


319 


handkerchiefs, and the passengers waved back. He stood 
there, waving his hand. She kept her gaze fixed on his 
face, in order to carry away with her a memory which 
should always endure. His figure grew dimmer and’ 
smaller. Then the ship’s nose swung away, and pointed 
out to sea, carrying her off from him to her new and 
unknown destiny. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


FROM DAWNIA TO REDWAYS 

C HANCE was her ally at the outset. Mrs. Dester’s 
fancy proved more than a passing one. Learning 
that the girl was friendless, she invited her to her 
own home at Lancaster Gate when the ship reached Eng¬ 
land. That invitation decided her future. Stella inspired 
affection, and more. It was soon to be seen that Mrs. 
Dester looked upon her as a daughter, sent to her by 
Providence, and, indeed, there was nothing to prevent her 
thinking so. Stella was alone in the world, and Mrs. 
Dester was childless: her one son killed early in the war. 
Their loneliness brought them closer together, and Stella’s 
stay at Lancaster Gate was prolonged. After a time 
there was no talk of her leaving it again; it had become 
her home. Her lines had fallen in pleasant places, and 
she was grateful and content. The past grew dim: she 
had no misgivings, and serenity was hers. Moreover, she 
was doing service for her country, as a patriotic English¬ 
woman should, in times of war. Mrs. Dester turned her 
large house into a convalescent home for wounded officers, 
and Stella assisted in nursing the wounded heroes back 
to health. This gracious and benignant duty did not 
satisfy her. She wished to do more. It was the fashion 
of the moment for English girls of social standing to 
go to the front as nurses. Stella—now looked upon as 
Mrs. Dester’s protegee and heiress—caught the enthu¬ 
siasm after seeing some badly wounded soldiers arrive 
at London at midnight. She underwent a course of train- 


FROM DAWNIA TO REDWAYS 321 

ing, and was sent out. It w T as in France that she first 
set Sir Roger Lynngarth. 

“It was fate”—thus she defined it, sadly. “Just a 
strange chance.” 

The place of their meeting was a base hospital at 
Rouen. Stella was nursing there, and Sir Roger on a 
visit of inspection. Cupid found him vulnerable, and 
Glenluce, listening to Stella’s account of the meeting, 
was able to understand why. Sir Roger’s eyes, seeking 
objects of interest, had lighted upon a dainty English 
girl nursing her fellow countrymen. The spectacle ap¬ 
pealed to his patriotism, and the beauty of the nurse 
fired his senses. The moment and surroundings were 
favourable for the reception of soft emotions in a baro¬ 
net’s heart. Sir Roger Lynngarth fell in love at sight. 

Stella did not know that until afterwards. Sir Roger 
did not speak of love in those grim surroundings. His 
god just then was not Cupid, but Mars; his immediate 
objective, the seat of war. As a patriotic Englishman 
of high standing (and some political importance) Sir 
Roger had been invited by the Government to deliver 
exordiums to the British troops at the front. It was in 
this aspect of a man with a patriotic mission to fulfil 
that Stella regarded him. She never thought of him in 
any other light—not then. 

The Armistice came shortly afterwards, and the scene 
changed to London and Lancaster Gate. Sir Roger 
Lynngarth became a frequent visitor at Mrs. Dester’s 
house. The object of his visits was plain to others but 
not to Stella. It was Mrs. Dester, a more experienced 
observer, who first opened her eyes by telling her that 
Sir Roger Lynngarth was in love with her. 

Love! She had no love to give him. All the love in 
her heart was for his son, though she little dreamed of 


322 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


the relation in which her James Raymond stood to the 
dignified gentleman who sought to win her. She had 
written to James Raymond frequently, but no letters had 
reached her in return. 

“I thought he had forgotten me,” she whispered. “I 
know now that he did not want me to remember him. 
He thought it best not to write—he believed I would 
soon forget. I, who would have cherished his least word. 
But his love was not for me. Then Sir Roger asked me 
to be his wife. Mrs. Dester said I ought to accept him. 
She said it was such a splendid chance.” 

Chance again! Are such tricks of fate purely chance? 
Glenluce asked himself that question, but could not an¬ 
swer it. 

Stella attempted to explain the motives which prompted 
her to accept Sir Roger’s offer. He was kind without 
expecting too much in return, and his attitude towards 
her poured balm on the old wounds within her which 
had not yet healed. Of her past experiences he knew 
nothing whatever. Glenluce gathered that she made hes¬ 
itating efforts to impart her story, but her awe of him 
and his own attitude were not helpful towards these ten¬ 
tative efforts. Sir Roger was not an easy man to con¬ 
fide in, nor was their way of life suitable to the expression 
of exalted moods. Sir Roger put her on his own level 
as the adopted daughter of a lady of social standing and 
wealth. In that situation he had found her, loved her, 
and deemed her worthy. Stella did not persist. Mar¬ 
riage? After all, James Raymond had wished her to 
marry, and she was never going to see him again. She 
was quite sure of that, by this time. What did it matter, 
then? Sir Roger was kind and she was grateful. That 
summed it up. As for the rest- 

“I didn’t love him, and he knew it,” she said, with 




FROM DAWNIA TO REDWAYS 


323 


an effort at extenuation which to Glenluce was unneces¬ 
sary. “He was quite content that it should be so. So 
I agreed to marry him.” 

If she did not bring him love she brought him gratitude, 
youth and beauty: gifts well worth any man’s acceptance. 
In return, he made her the mistress of Redways, with 
all that England, and England only, can offer to a woman 
in such a position. Shortly before her marriage Sir 
Roger told her of the son who had left England twelve 
years before, and was supposed to have died abroad. 
Of course she had not the slightest suspicion of the truth, 
then or afterwards. There was nothing to hint at it: 
nothing to connect the memory of Robert Lynngarth 
with the man she had known as James Raymond. Por¬ 
traits or paintings? All such at Redways had been care¬ 
fully removed years before. Even if they had remained 
they would not have enlightened her. Robert Lynngarth 
had changed—changed immeasurably—in the course of 
his twelve years’ wanderings. 

She tried to do her duty in her new and exalted station. 
If she brought him no heir, as he had hoped, she was able 
to reach his expectations in other respects. She had her 
dower: beauty and music, and the upbringing of the 
daughter of an English clergyman. With such things 
she was not likely to be at fault—nor was she, as Glenluce 
knew. He had seen her, beautiful as an ivory carving, 
presiding over his dead friend’s formal dinner parties 
with rare grace, and he did not doubt that she could hold 
her own with the womenfolk equally well. The county 
was surprised at first, but it was merely a question of 
time and use. 

Time helped her to forget. The past grew dimmer: 
even the figure of her hero became a trifle shadowy and 
indistinct. She took her marriage vows very seriously, 



324 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


as a good girl should, and tried, quite determinedly, to 
banish all thoughts of James Raymond from her mind. 
And, if she was not completely successful, the fault lay 
with the tricks memory plays with the best of us, and 
not with her. 

And then—the mystery and wonder of it!—Chance 
interfered in her life again; this time to overwhelm her, 
and topple her from her pinnacle. 

Chance, Glenluce learned, appeared to her, at first, as 
a dark speck in the avenue of Redways: a long trim drive 
which w T ound in stately fashion through the trees and 
parkland which lay between the high road and the house. 
She was alone in the garden that afternoon. Sir Roger 
was out in his car, and she was gardening in an aimless 
sort of way: snipping leaves, gathering blooms, tying 
frisking tendrils to little stakes. The speck, when she 
first saw it, had just turned off the distant road through 
the big iron gates. A little later she observed that it 
was the figure of a man hobbling up the drive on a crutch. 
No instinct warned her to rush inside the house and hide 
herself until he had gone away. She stayed where she 
was, gardening in her big gloves, humming a little air— 
the last song her heart was to know—heedless of that 
approaching shape of doom. It reached the garden gate 
and leant over, unobserved by her. A voice startled her, 
addressing her in supplicating accents. She did not rec¬ 
ognize it. His voice was not husky and broken, least of 
all supplicating, when she had heard it last. 

She turned in her sanctuary; turned and saw him. 

Glenluce could picture that scene: the garden, the drive, 
the crippled cringing figure at the rustic gate, and her 
startled lovely face turned questioningly towards it. He 
could see, too, the change in their respective attitudes as 
mutual recognition dawned: Stella’s eyes widening with 



FROM DAWNIA TO REDWAYS 


325 


horror, her form, at first tense, drooping like a wounded 
dove at the sight of that dark face poised over the gate 
like a snake; a snake ready to strike. From her lips 
one word, and one only, had fallen: “Marist!” 

Her first panic-stricken thought was to fly, but reason 
told her that flight was useless now. With the appear¬ 
ance of that apparition at the gate the old yoke of terror 
was laid on her shoulders again. She advanced trem¬ 
blingly, fearfully towards him. He interpreted her feel¬ 
ings aright, and knew that he held her in the hollow of 
his hand. They talked in whispers. Marist had fallen 
on evil times. He had gone into the war on the British 
side as interpreter, and a chance splinter of shrapnel at 
Gallipoli had entered his knee and ruined him as a dancer. 
After the war he had drifted to England, and was then 
making a precarious w r ay to London, where he hoped to 
come across compatriots who would help him. The 
chance which had brought him to Redways was a remark 
dropped by the landlord of the village inn, where he had 
stayed on the previous night. The landlord, with the 
ready sympathy of a fat man, had condoled w T ith him on 
his crippled condition. The w r ar? A bad war, that. 
Who’d got anything out of it, he wanted to know, except 
the politicians? His own son was wmunded at Gallipoli 
—lost a leg. Sir Roger Lynngarth got him a soft job 
when he came back. As a clerk. All he was fit for now. 
Sir Roger was one of the right sort—a gentleman—pity 
there weren’t more like him nowadays. The landlord had 
enlarged so on Sir Roger’s goodness to all who had been 
broken in the war that Marist had asked where the great 
gentleman was to be found. The landlord had pointed 
out the gables of Redways from the door of the inn. On 
the strength of that information Marist had made his 
way to the big house, hoping that by chance he might 


326 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


see Sir Roger, and solicit him to help a poor crippled 
soldier tramping to London. Chance did more than that 
for him: brought him face to face with the last person 
in the world he had expected to see again. 

Stella gave him money, and by doing so sealed her fate. 
But, she asked Glenluce piteously, what else could she 
do—then? Anything, anything, to get him away before 
he was seen. 

He was at such low ebb that he pocketed her bank-note 
with profuse thanks, and went away. That was only 
the beginning of course. He obtained Stella’s promise 
to meet him in the park that night, before he returned to 
the village inn to scheme upon the best method of turn¬ 
ing this astounding piece of luck to advantage. He was 
astute enough to realize that secret meetings between 
Lady Lynngarth of Redways and a crippled tramp were 
dangerous, and likely to bring disaster upon them both. 
When he met her that night he had his plan all ready. 
He was to come to the house again on the morrow, and 
in the meantime she was to interest her husband in a 
wounded soldier she had helped that day, and was to ask 
Sir Roger to give the poor man a post as a gamekeeper, 
or something like that. The idea (though he did not 
say so) was to be near her to bleed her at leisure; with¬ 
out suspicion, or fear of consequences. 

It was the abominable scheme of an atrocious scoundrel, 
and Stella should have unhesitatingly refused to comply 
with it, although her refusal entailed telling Sir Roger 
everything. That was Glenluce’s thought, but he was not 
inclined to judge her very harshly. Even then the terror 
which Marist inspired in her was apparent to him. Her 
fear of this man was, in its way, an appalling thing, an 
inexplicable kind of obsession which robbed her of all 
power of resistance, and was beyond the reach of argu- 



FROM DAWNIA TO REDWAYS 327 

ment and reason. It was like a spell cast upon her: a 
spell which she was powerless to resist. If she had been 
able to resist it when Marist reappeared, the future might 
have been different for her. Instead, she weakly yielded, 
and complied with his demands. Thus it was that Marist 
came to Redways as gamekeeper. 

Her punishment followed swiftly. Marist, once safely 
established, began to make her life unendurable by his 
rapacity, his greed and his threats. And there was al¬ 
ways her terror, which was a thing apart. She kept him 
well supplied with money, sealing notes in envelopes and 
taking them to his cottage, but his cupidity was in¬ 
satiable. More money, more! That was his incessant 
demand. He was implacable in this. And there was 
always the risk that she might be seen or overhead when 
she went to the cottage by the river. She paid, and paid 
dearly, for the folly of compliance. 

It is impossible to say how long this state of affairs 
would have remained undiscovered if Robert had not re¬ 
turned. The mysterious chance which brought these 
three together again added to the difficulties of her own 
position. It was not that she feared Robert would dis¬ 
close the past. She knew him too well for that. The 
prospect of a chance betrayal through surprise she 
guarded against by placing her photograph in the 
Painted Room where he was to meet his father. By that 
device she succeeded in warning him, and later she was 
able to see him alone in the hall and ensure his silence. 
No; the increased burden of her suspense came through 
Marist recognizing in Robert Lynngarth the man who 
had taken her away from him at Dawnia six years before. 
Robert did not know Marist had seen the face of the 
man who disappeared from Dawnia at the time when 
Stella had fled. Marist was no fool. Fie had made in- 


328 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


quiries; put two and two together at the time, and now, 
after the lapse of years, he was able to check the sum 
and prove the damning total correct. 

Stella’s first impulse was to confide the truth to Robert. 
She w T as deterred from following this course by two con¬ 
siderations. These were Marist’s threats and a womanly 
shame at disclosing to him that the man in whose subjec¬ 
tion she lived w r as a wretched crippled gamekeeper on 
her husband’s estate. She did not know what he might 
infer, erroneously, yet naturally, from such a confession. 
She might have overcome that feeling of humiliation if 
her fear of Marist, and his threats, had not kept her 
silent. 

She was now in a situation of great complexity. 
Marist was swayed between greed and jealousy. Not 
knowing how James Raymond came to appear on the 
scene as Robert Lynngarth, his first impulse was to at¬ 
tempt to intimidate one w T hom he believed to be an im¬ 
postor, but when he learnt the truth from Stella he 
refrained from a course wLich would have spelt risk to 
himself. He realized that he would have short shrift 
if Robert guessed w r ho he was. So he kept his counsel, 
and forced Stella to keep hers. But jealousy raged 
within him like seven devils. He had loved her truly (so 
he told her) until this infernal Raymond had carried 
her off from him at Dawnia. He sneered at her earnest 
assurance that James Raymond (now Robert Lynngarth) 
had acted like a man of honour towards her. A pretty 
tale, truly! Hadn’t she gone off with him? And here 
he was, turning up again. Well, they had better look 
out—the pair of them. So he had wdiispered to her, with 
a kind of snarling ferocity. In this frame of mind he 
fell to watching them closely, prowling round Redways 
at night, peering through windows, lurking in the back- 


FROM DAWNIA TO REDWAYS 329 

ground like a Mephistopheles on crutches, murmuring 
terrible thieats in her ear when he caught her alone. 

Then, one night, Robert went to his cottage and threat¬ 
ened him. So he told her afterwards, leaping across 
the wood for that purpose, and hopping furiously around 
the house. She had just gone upstairs and heard him. 
At that fateful sound she looked out, and he beckoned 
to her. She crept down to him. He was full of anger 
and displayed a ferocity which frightened her. Threaten 
him! He’d teach him—teach them both a lesson. Jeal¬ 
ousy and wrath blazed up in him fiercely; to such an 
extent that he swore he’d get even with them both by 
going to Sir Roger and telling him how she had run 
away from him at Dawnia with his son. 

That was a threat, which frightened Stella effectually. 
She believed he would do it, and what would happen 
then? In despair she determined to tell Robert every¬ 
thing, and she scribbled a hasty note which she put under 
his door, asking him to meet her next day in the church¬ 
yard. He kept that appointment, and she told him part 
of the truth—that Marist was back in England. But 
his reception of that piece of news checked the remainder 
of her intended confession. Her resolution to tell him 
all the truth crumbled within her as she saw the look 
in his eyes. She had a glimpse of something which caused 
her soul to quake within her. She had made a mistake, 
and she knew it. She realized that if these two men 
met it would only make matters worse—infinitely worse. 
She had told half the truth, but she would not tell the 
rest. She endeavoured to save her blunder that way. 
Robert might think or guess what he liked, but he 
wouldn’t do anything unless he was quite sure. 

“So I said no more,” she said. 

That meeting was interrupted by Sir Roger. She did 



330 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


not know how much of their conversation he had over¬ 
heard, but she feared the worst. That thought made 
her shiver. It was not his discovery, but what he would 
read into it. Better, far better, if she had disclosed her 
secret while there was time. For he would not believe 
her now. 

Afterwards—that same night—she learnt how bad it 
was. Robert found her alone, in the drawing-room. His 
eyes answered her look before he spoke. Then he told 
her. 

Fear of her husband was swallowed up in the chilling 
news of Robert’s sentence of banishment. She had found 
him again only to lose him! It unloosened all the innate 
recklessness of her disposition. All things paled beside 
her love for him, and the knowledge that her life was 
worthless without his presence. He spoke of this hurried 
talk as their last meeting. She could not bear that. 
And besides, she had not yet told him all. She knew 
that the truth about Marist must come out now. He 
could—and would—save her from him. She said she 
would go to his room that night and tell him. He im¬ 
plored her not to attempt such a thing: spoke wise 
counsel, urging prudence, patience, resignation—barren 
things for a woman in despair. He did everything he 
could to dissuade her, but she w r as in no mood to be dis¬ 
suaded. She was in the mood to do desperate things. She 
w r as lonely and overwhelmed, and in that frame of mind 
the conventions go overboard. She begged him to let 
her see him that night, for the last time, the very last 
time! Moved by her entreaties, he gave w r ay. 

She had something else in her mind, but waited until 
she saw r him that night before disclosing it. 

“I asked him to take me out of England, because I 
cared nothing for life without him.” 


FROM DAWNIA TO REDWAYS 331 

Robert refused. He begged her not to talk in such a 
way. “Go to my father and tell him everything.” Such 
was the burden of his advice. He assured her she had 
nothing to fear if she trusted her husband, and that the 
best thing he could do w T as to go away and leave them 
together. This advice w r as unpalatable to her sad heart. 
She replied brokenly that she did not love Sir Roger. 
And then there came a knock at the door, and she heard 
her husband’s voice outside. “Robert!” he called. 

She was badly frightened, and did not know what to 
do. Robert remained quite calm. He made a gesture 
towards a piece of furniture (a dwarf bookcase, she 
thought) standing a little way from the wall, near the 
door. She understood, and slipped behind it like a flash. 
Then he went to the door and opened it. 

Her hiding-place was none of the best, and she waited, 
quaking. She steeled herself for outcry, discovery, shame. 
What could she have said—what excuse brought forward? 
But she had nothing to fear after all. Sir Roger had 
not come there in search of her. Standing a little within 
the room, close to her ostrich nook between the bookcase 
and the open door, he addressed his son, in level even 
tone. “If there is anything you wish to see me about, 
Robert, before you go, you will find me in the Painted 
Room.” That was all. Having said this, he uttered a 
brief “Good night!” and went out of the room again. 

This incident, with its perils so narrowly averted, 
marked a turning-point of feeling (if not of heart) within 
her. When the coast was clear she bade Robert good 
night, and went to her room. There she passed half an 
hour in sobering reflection. In that moment her conduct 
appeared before her eyes in its true light. She saw her 
folly and she saw her duty: saw them both aright. The 
love of Robert Lynngarth was not for her, and could 


332 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


never be hers. Whatever the future held for her, it could 
not hold that. It was true she loved him and would 
always love him, for one cannot control love, but, failing 
his in return, she could take the path of duty which he 
had pointed out to her. It was a hard path to tread, 
but at least she would not fail him there. She decided 
to go downstairs to her husband and tell him all, and 
ask him to forgive her. 

“I went down. The house was dark and silent, but 
there was a light beneath the door of the Painted Room, 
and I heard voices within. I believed it was Robert, 
with his father, and I thought it would be better for me 
to wait until the morning. So I went back to my room.” 

Stella was silent for some moments, then went on, but 
with an evident effort: 

“It was not Robert in there, but Marist. He told 
me about it, afterwards.” 

Marist was abroad that night, like an uneasy ghost, 
prowling around Redways on his two legs. He could 
use the maimed one when he chose, after a fashion. In 
fact, it had become a fairly serviceable limb again, though 
spoilt for dancing. But the soi-disant gamekeeper re¬ 
tained his crutch because it gained him sympathy and 
kept him at Redways. He even used it in his nocturnal 
prowlings, as a rule. But this night he was so late in 
going abroad that he thought he might safely leave the 
encumbrance behind at his cottage. Skulking and watch¬ 
ing in the garden, he saw a light in the Painted Room. 
He approached the window. Pressing his face against it, 
he could just get a glimpse within, and he saw Sir Roger 
sitting at his bureau, writing. Sir Roger looked up, and 
their eyes met. 

Sir Roger rose swiftly from his chair, and came to the 
window, flinging it open. “You, Wells!” he exclaimed. 


FROM DAWNIA TO REDWAYS 


333 


“What is the matter? What do you want here, at this 
hour?” Marist did not stir, but just stood there, look¬ 
ing at him. But his mind was working quickly. In that 
instant of mental tension all considerations except the 
desire for revenge were swept away. Hatred of Robert 
Lynngarth swept through his brain like a flame. Here 
was the chance, his chance of revenge, and of extorting 
money from Sir Roger Lynngarth at the same time. He 
did not hesitate. Impulse and opportunity, coming to¬ 
gether, overcame him, as they have overcome better men. 
“I wish to speak to you, Sir Roger.” Sir Roger’s answer 
was to step back from the window, and Marist took that 
as an indication that he might enter. He stepped in, 
noiselessly as a cat. “What is it that you wish to see 
me about?” Sir Roger asked. “I have something to tell 
you about your wife—and your son,” Marist said. 

Those words were all he was destined to utter. Sir 
Roger went white. “How dare you, you scoundrel!” he 
exclaimed, and struck the gamekeeper across the face. 
The blow was feeble enough in all conscience, but sufficient 
to let loose the other’s ferocious temper. With a snarl 
and an oath he closed with Sir Roger, catching him by 
the throat. Sir Roger gave a faint cry, and then, with 
a convulsive movement, fell to the floor. Marist bent over 
him, and to his horror saw that he was dead. At that 
moment he heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor 
outside. They were Stella’s, but he did not know that. 

It all happened in an instant: the blow, the fall, and 
the sound of footsteps. At that moment Marist believed 
that he had killed Sir Roger. Facing the door in a frenzy 
of terror, he caught up the body in his arms, and stepped 
through the open window with it, still glancing back¬ 
wards towards the door. His first impulse was to drop 
the body on the lawn and take to his heels, but fears for 


334 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


his own skin led him to carry it away and hide it until 
he considered the position. Danger is a great quickener 
of the wits: the old tower came to his mind as an excel¬ 
lent hiding-place. With an inward shudder he shouldered 
his burden and carried it there. Again the instinct of 
self-preservation asserted itself, prompting him to carry 
the body up to the belfry and fasten the door downstairs 
before making an exit by scrambling through the win¬ 
dow. When he had done this he felt fairly safe—for 
the moment. Thinking it all over as he walked back 
to his cottage by the river, he decided to avoid suspicion 
by remaining where he was and going about his duties as 
usual until he saw what was likely to happen. 

It was afterwards, w T hen he learnt that the guilt of 
murder was not his, and that he was in no danger, that 
he told Stella w T hat had happened. The shock had had a 
chastening effect upon him. It may have been the peni¬ 
tence of a devil sick, but it was sincere while it lasted. 
He had said: “I am glad that it is not through me that 
your husband is dead. I tried for revenge, but that is 
all over now. I am sorry.” Two days after the funeral 
he went away without further word; left his cottage and 
his strange pets—his birds, his parrots and his bats—for 
good. 

“I have a little more to tell you concerning myself,” 
Stella went on. “Next morning, when I w r as told that Sir 
Roger was missing, I believed that Robert knew w T hat 
had happened, because I thought it was he who was in 
the Painted Room with Sir Roger w T hen I went downstairs 
in the dark. It was all so strange and mysterious, but 
it seemed to me that whatever had taken place was bound 
to come out. I dared not ask Robert—I feared to. But 
though I wronged him in my thoughts I wanted to help 
him at all risks. Besides, I feared for my own secret. 



FROM DAWNIA TO REDWAYS 


335 


Not through Robert; I knew he would not say anything 
to hurt me, no matter what happened to himself. No; 
there was another reason. You see, Sir Roger had been 
very cold and distant with me at dinner, and he went 
to his study immediately afterwards, saying that he had 
important letters to write. When he disappeared I could 
not help wondering if those letters concerned myself and 
Robert. That w T as a thought which troubled me greatly. 
I slipped along the corridor and into the Painted Room 
while they were searching for Sir Roger upstairs. 1 
opened some of the drawers of the bureau, but they were 
all stuffed full of papers, and I dared not stay long. In 
the afternoon you came. I knew you would make a better 
search than I-” 

She broke off here with a penitent smile, as if entreating 
forgiveness. 

“It was I who crept after you into the Painted Room, 
and took the letter from the bureau. I got out of the 
window, as you supposed—the same way that I left it 
in the morning, when I forgot to unlock the door. Some¬ 
times I thought you guessed. I have seen you looking 

at me, in a way-” She met his glance seriously, 

coloured a little, and went on: “I opened the letter when 
I got back to my room. It was about myself. So I 
burnt it.” Again her colour rose, but as quickly faded 
away. 

“And now, I have told you everything,” she said, in a 
tired weak voice. “I sent for you because of Robert, 
knowing you would understand. Although he shielded 
me, he loves Kathleen, and Kathleen has let him go away. 
I would not have let him go if he had loved me. I knew, 
of course, that we had to part for ever after all this hap¬ 
pened. Even if Robert had loved me there was his 
father’s death—for which I was partly to blame—be- 





336 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


tween us. And there was the relationship. But Robert 
did not love me in the way that I loved him. When I 
went to Fenchurch Street to say good-bye to him, I 
knew that I was seeing his dear face for the last time. 
He stood there telling me to be brave, and to try and 
be happy at Redways and take care of Kathleen for his 
father’s sake. I did not tell him that I had made up 
my mind not to go back to Redways. What was Red- 
ways to me, when he had gone? Since then, he has never 
been out of my mind. Night and day I see him, a solitary 
figure, in that far-off lonely island. In my dreams I 
see him in danger, holding out his hands for help—help 
which never comes. And I want you to go to Redways 
and tell Kathleen all that I have told you. Robert should 
never have gone away again, and since I have been here 
something tells me that it may have been through me. 
If Kathleen has wronged him in any way she must send 
and bring him back. I have been quite frank with you, 
for Robert’s sake, and you must tell Kathleen just as 
I have told you. Will you do this?” 

“Yes,” he said. 

“When will you see her?” 

“I will go down in the morning.” 

“Tell her that Robert loved her all through. I know 
that now, if she doesn’t. Tell her, if she loves him, to 
go out to the island and bring him back.” 

“I will tell her.” 

“Thank you.” She held out her hand. “Good-bye.” 

“I will come and see you again when I return from 
Redways,” he said, rising to his feet. 

“That is kind of you,” she said. “Will you give 
Robert a message from me when he comes back? I have 
left him my money—Sir Roger’s money. I wrote to 
Mr. Baron about it. He quite agreed: a wise precaution, 



FROM DAWNIA TO REDWAYS 


337 


he called it. Redways is Robert’s and his father’s money 
will be his. No; not a message—better not. Give him 
my love, Colonel Glenluce. Just my love—he will under¬ 
stand. You will meet him some day again—when he 
comes back to marry Kathleen—and you will remem¬ 
ber?” 

“You will meet him yourself,” said Glenluce, “meet 
him in happier circumstances, when all this is past and 
forgotten.” 

Stella did not reply to that. “Good-bye, Colonel 
Glenluce,” she said once more. “You have been very 
kind.” 

She turned away her head, and he could see that she 
was sobbing a little. He realized that she had no thought 
for him, and turned sadly away. 




CHAPTER XXXIII 


THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE SEA 


AT the foot of the obsidian cliffs a level blue sea 
r-\ sparkled in a glittering confusion of silver caused 
by myriads of small fish moving in a compact mass 
northward to some unknown spawning destination. From 
the south-east they came, steering north and north-east. 
Heroic voyagers they, encompassed by dangers above and 
below. Great fish pursued them in the sea—hordes of 
red cod, barracouta, hapuku, and dogfish—hunting the 
little fish so ferociously that portions of the shoal were 
forced above the surface of the water by those under¬ 
neath endeavouring to escape. But the great fish did 
not have it all their own way. Many were destined to 
furnish supper in their turn for the spotted seals which 
brought up the rear of the great, slow-moving procession, 
barking huskily, like sheepdogs in charge of an unruly 
flock. 

Above, the air was full of birds assembled for the 
feast: gulls, shags, w T halebirds and albatrosses. There 
were plenty of penguins and rockhoppers too—whole 
troops of them—but as they couldn’t fly they remained 
in the sea beneath, feasting without intermission. They 
had the advantage there, but there was more than enough 
to go round without the noise and quarrelling which 
attended the banquet. The birds, at least, did not bring 
the civilized virtue of manners to table. They swooped 
and gorged and fought with a clamour which echoed 
through the desolate islets for miles around. 

A barracouta, springing from the water after a fish 

338 


THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE SEA 339 

borne aloft by a grey-headed albatross, flopped gasping on 
the water-logged rocks at the extremity of the obsidian 
cliffs, trom its gaping jaws little fish came hopping and 
sliding like souls released from purgatory, to wriggle back 
into their cool natural element. Robert Lynngarth, stand¬ 
ing at the foot of the cliffs, stooped and flung the large fish 
higher on the rocks. Smoked barracouta was not bad 
at a pinch, and a change from tinned food. Then he 
turned his eyes seaward again to watch the strange sight. 

He had been back on the island for more than three 
months, making his return journey as he had departed 
from it after the great storm nine months before, to the 
intense amazement of Captain Marquet. The jaw of that 
bearded mariner had dropped when his eye fell upon the 
tall figure of James Raymond coming up the gangway 
of the Ascanius , berthed at the quay of the colonial city, 
bound for Sanctuary Island once more. Captain Marquet 
told himself he’d seen some queer starts in his life, but 
nothing queerer than this. “Well, I’m damned I” he said 
to himself, not once, but half a dozen times, as if re¬ 
peating some formula of exorcism. He was filled with a 
curiosity which James Raymond did not gratify. But 
his own inveterate loquacity survived that treatment. In 
a truly Christian spirit he repaid ungrateful reticence 
with a flood of gossip of what had happened in that part 
of the world since the former curator had departed. 
There had been a new Government and an earthquake 
shock in the colonial city (the earthquake had, it ap¬ 
peared, caused most stir) and a change of lighthouse- 
keepers on the southern circuit. Yes, and the caretaker 
who had succeeded him on Sanctuary Island had disap¬ 
peared. Gospel truth! A queer-looking bird he was, 
pretty good at bending the elbow. Perhaps it was the 
drink that finished him. At any rate, there was no sign 


340 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


of him when the Ascanius made her next call at the island 
with stores. Not a sign—and they wasted two days there 
searching for him. He had vanished into thin air or 
dropped into the sea. Captain Marquet inclined to the 
opinion that the blessed fool had got the blues there by 
himself, taken one drink too many, and flopped off the 
cliffs in the dark. However that might be, the island 
had run wild since. This was the second man who had 
disappeared from the island and never been seen again, 
and a third had gone mad there. The place had a bad 
name in consequence. There was no curator there at 
present. No one wanted the job until Raymond had 
turned up again. “No wonder, after w r hat happened! 
Why should any man want to live in such a God-forsaken 
spot looking after a few-birds?” asked Captain Mar¬ 

quet, bestowing an adjective upon the feathered denizens 
of Sanctuary Island which by sheer force of alliteration 
seemed to soothe his indignation a little. “Why should 
they?” he repeated, fixing resentful eyes upon his in¬ 
scrutable passenger. “Why, indeed?” James Raymond, 
smoking meditatively, had replied, ignoring that roundly 
curious glance. His own eyes were fixed seaward. 

In due time the vague outline of Sanctuary Island 
appeared like a shadow on the shining highway of the 
sea. Later, as the declining sun touched the glittering 
cliffs with slanting beam, a boat crept round and landed 
a man and dog at the landing-place. The man was 
James Raymond, but the dog was not his former com¬ 
panion in solitude. It was a mere puppy, as yet un¬ 
trained, and full of the futile enthusiasms of youth. Once 
again, Captain Marquet, edging the nose of the Ascanius 
away for the southern lighthouses, carried away with him 
a memory of a solitary figure gazing steadfastly over the 
sea, with seabirds wheeling and crying above him. 



THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE SEA 341 


'Thus Robert Lynngarth came to his sanctuary again. 
Once more he was James Raymond, keeper of a bird pre¬ 
serve, and guardian of the islands around him. Does 
hard work give peace? There was plenty of it here, to 
his hand: a wilderness to restore, fresh tracks to cut, 
overgrown paths to clear, timber to fell. The acclima¬ 
tized birds had become shy and unused to him; the wild 
cats were bold and numerous. There were traps to set 
and expeditions to make. It was nesting time with the 
songsters, and the dog (muzzled, for his morals were 
weak where eggs were at stake) had to be trained to seek 
and discover hidden nests in wooded groves. And there 
were trips to the surrounding islands to search for wind¬ 
blown birds. Yes; there was plenty for James Raymond 
to do; from dawn, when he arose, to dusk, when he re¬ 
turned to the hut to sup with the dog and spend his eve¬ 
nings preparing his maps and reports. 

It w T as his former life, yet different, though not in 
externals. The island was as he remembered it, and the 
ever-changing sea was unchanged. The birds, the cliffs 
and the surrounding islets, were as he had known them, 
but they were no longer desirable. The peace which 
was theirs was denied to him. He had sought sanctuary 
again, but had not found it. 

The beginning of the change he could trace to illness. 
It was summer wdien he returned, and for weeks the 
islands were lapped in a translucent blue in which they 
seemed to float. Tempted by the calm, he made long 
journeys in his boat, venturing farther into the wilder¬ 
ness of tombstone rocks than he had ever dared go before. 
One evening a sudden storm overtook him far from Sanc¬ 
tuary Island, and marooned him for the night on a bleak 
and barren rock. At daybreak he made his way back 
to his island, shivering and burning. Four days’ fever 


342 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


left him weak, with a cough, and a stabbing pain in the 
back when he breathed. 

From that illness he had never completely recovered. 
The cough and the pain in his lungs did not leave him. 
He stuck to his daily tasks, but returned to the hut at 
night with a white face and eyes bright with fever. But 
his worst symptom by far was that he was now oppressed 
by the solitude which surrounded him, and saw in it 
shapes visible to his eyes alone. He looked over his 
shoulder when he walked, and sometimes quickened his 
steps. . . . 

In the evening, when the short dusk faded and darkness 
veiled the island in an obscurity profound as everlasting 
night, he had moments when he felt that he was no longer 
alone, though the eyes peering stealthily at him from the 
shadows were not human. Perhaps illness had weakened 
his faculties, or it may be that solitude had intensified 
his imagination, but at these times he was weighed down 
with a sensation of such intolerable horror and loneliness 
that he could have cried aloud. 

Jtesolutely he endeavoured to banish his fears, his fears 
and his phantoms, but they always returned; latterly 
by day as well as night. The visitation followed a set 
course which had become invariably familiar to him by 
repetition. First a sense of horror and desolation un¬ 
speakable; next, the impression that he was watched or 
followed—without footfalls—by some frightful elemental 
force which would sooner or later become visible to his 
eyes. And when that happened. . . . He tried not to 
think of it, but thought rode him savagely, like a witch- 
hag. Madness? That would be the end. He was still 
sufficiently sane to realize it. Or a jump off the cliff, 
like the last curator, who had disappeared from the island 
while he was in England. 


THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE SEA 343 


The glittering cliffs had an intolerable fascination for 
him now. They beckoned him from their heights, and 
he climbed up and looked down at the sea plunging 
against their wrinkled sides. “Come!” the sea cried to 
him. “Come, here is peace.” He would turn away, to 
seek by incessant labour the peace which had been his 
before, but he always returned. He knew that he was 
deteriorating—weakening. His will ebbed, slowly, yet 
surely, like a sluggish receding tide. 

He had one of these terrible visitations now. The 
invisible thing, this unimaginable horror, whatever it was, 
was behind him at that moment, looking down with him 
into the sea. He dared not glance around. The immen¬ 
sity of fear contained in that short space was almost 
beyond human endurance. Then the agony passed. The 
thing had gone—gone seaward, leaving him with such 
a blessed sense of relief that he could have laughed out 
for joy. 

But he knew it would return. 

The shoal and its devourers passed away to the north, 
with the exception of one spotted seal, which had made 
for a penguinery, and was killing penguins with the 
ferocity of a true leopard of the sea. Robert decided to 
go out in the boat in the morning and kill it. Then he 
picked up the barracouta from the rocks and started for 
the hut. 

Night was approaching fast, falling swiftly upon sea 
and islands. Robert felt dizzy and ill, and the pain in 
his side pierced him. The path seemed to rock beneath 
him as if the island had at last yielded to the eternal 
pressure of the sea. He became aware of a deadly lan¬ 
guor in his limbs, which weighed down his frame. He 
stumbled occasionally as he walked, and the hut appealed 
very far away. He had strange moments when the dark- 



344 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


ening track disappeared, and everything went black. He 
realized wearily that he was very ill. 

It was long after dark when he reached the hut. The 
dog, shut up inside, greeted him frantically, as one re¬ 
turned from the dead. He fed the animal, and made some 
tea for himself, which he drank thirstily. Then he drew 
a chair to the fire and fell into a dull stupor. 

The stupor passed as the fever grew, and played tricks 
with his brain. He walked about the hut, muttering. 
The dog, eyes askant, crept away. Imagination flared 
with hectic brilliance. He was back in England—at 
Redways. Faces and figures—the hut was full of them. 
There was Stella’s face, tender and pleading, sw r eet as a 
flower, but a flower crushed; Kathleen’s too; dark eyes 
raised coldly to his. And a figure on a crutch, by the 
door. But the sound of sea on the rocks? There was 
no sea at Redways. . . . No, no! He was not at Red- 
w T ays. He was in the hut on Sanctuary Island, away 
from England, alone—“beyond the reach of hands.” 
How did that line run, now . . . Swinburne. . . . Where 
was the book? He used to read it—read it before- 

The dog crept farther away as he stumbled like a 
drunken man to a shelf of books—a strange collection, 
brought together by unknown hands. Robert’s eyes 
sought restlessly for the volume of which he was in quest 
— Pickwick, Cruden’s Concordance, A Tale of a Tub, My 
Sweetheart Louise, Pelham, Midshipman Easy. These, 
and some tattered magazines of ancient date, a volume 
of sermons, and Swinburne’s Poems and Ballads, in a 
green and gold cover. Swinburne ... he used to read 
him in his college days. He could write poetry ... a 
rebel, too, in his time, but quiet enough now. 

He carried the book to the table and sat down. Two 
lines stood out from the page as he opened it: 




THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE SEA 345 

“Is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour, 

To think of things that are well outworn ?” 

Perhaps not, but if a life was nothing but memories 
what was to be done? Not think at all? Good advice, 
but difficult to follow. The poets advised Nature, but 
Nature had its limitations, like humanity. Barren phi¬ 
losophy, that . . . 

“It is not much that a man can save 

On the sands of life, in the straits of time . . .” 

True; yet the little was worth saving, if it could be 
saved. 

“I wish we were dead together to-day. 

Lost sight of, hidden away out of sight . . .” 

That was Stella’s wish—almost the last thing she had 
said to him. She longed for death, she said. Death? 
What was death? Was it to be “filled full of the night” 
and nothing more? Poor little Stella . . . He read on: 

“How we should slumber, how we should sleep, 

Far in the dark with the dreams and the dews! 

And dreaming, grow to each other, and weep, 

Laugh low, live softly, murmur and muse. . . .” 

Love in the grave? No, no! Sleep was the thing 
there. The dead deserved their rest. His eyes alighted 
on another verse: 

“You have chosen and clung to the chance they sent you, 

Life sweet as perfume and pure as prayer. 

But will it not one day in heaven repent you? 

Will they solace you wholly, the days that were? 


346 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


Will you lift up your eyes between sadness and bliss. 

Meet mine, and see where the great love is, 

And tremble and turn and be changed ? Content you; 

The gate is strait; I shall not be there/’ 

Those lines might have been written about Kathleen 
and himself. They were true too. He would not be 
there—neither as Robert Lynngarth nor James Raymond. 

. . who now on earth need care how I live? 

Have the high gods anything left to give. . . .” 

Nothing—except death. The pages slipped through 
his fingers. 

“I will go back to the great sweet mother. 

Mother and lover of men, the sea.” 

Well, he had gone back to her, and she had failed him. 

‘T will go . . ” 

Stop! Who was that reading over his shoulder? He 
broke off abruptly, staring around the hut, but could 
see nothing living except the dog, crouching in the corner. 
He turned again to his book, but now the lines danced 
beneath his eyes. 

“. . death is the worst that comes of thee; 

Thou art fed with our dead . . . 

• • • • • • 

. . . hopes that hurt . . . dreams that hover, 

Shall they not vanish away and apart?” 

In death—yes; but everything vanished then. After 
all, death was not a solution of life. Swinburne was 




THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE SEA 347 

dead—gone to the grave with his music like the swish 
of the sea. . . . 

He pushed the book from him, and took off his coat, 
oppressed with a great heat, which seemed to consume 
him. Through the open window the cool lap of the sea 
against the cliffs reached his ears. He went to the door, 
and out. 

Outside, a moon at full flooded the sea and islands 
with light. Robert made his way to the landing-place 
and across the shingle beach, then turned into the narrow 
path which led to the cliffs, scaling it until he came to 
the heights. On he went until he reached the brink, and 
stood looking around him. The scene which stretched 
before him was wonderfully beautiful, but not as Robert 
saw it. He was no longer Robert Lynngarth, but a 
fever-ridden being in the grip of delirium. He had crossed 
the borderline between sanity and the irrational. His 
illusions had become hallucinations—madness. The im¬ 
mense and pitiless whiteness reflected to his vision snake¬ 
like forms uncoiling from the sparkling sea, and rising 
higher and higher to look at him on the edge of the cliffs 
before dropping noiselessly back into the depths again. 
He turned his back on these revolting objects, and re¬ 
traced his steps down the steep path to the beach and 
landing-place. Here he again stopped, looking out to 
sea. 

The moon had reached its zenith, steeping everything 
in a white glare so mercilessly vivid that it might have 
been that last eternal light which shall reveal the founda¬ 
tions of the world and lay bare the souls of all men. It 
searched the sea and flooded the islands. Coatless and 
hatless, Robert looked about him. He noted the glisten¬ 
ing of the rocks caused by the imperceptible rise and 
fall of the ocean’s swell. Afar, his eye detected rows of 


348 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


birds roosting in tiers on the slopes of Babbling Island, 
named so because of the noises made by the great numbers 
of penguins and mollyhawks which congregated there. 
He recalled that an old whaler in the South Seas had 
once assured him that the number of people and penguins 
upon earth were exactly equal, every human soul enter¬ 
ing a penguin’s egg at death, and every penguin’s finding 
lodgment in a new-born babe. A mad idea! Its author 
declared that it had been revealed to him in a vision. 
He lived alone too. 

It was ebb-tide; he could see the caves uncovered at 
Groaning Island, where the sea gurgled in and out great 
holes at low water. Stay, though! Wasn’t the sea 
mounting in the moonlight, mounting to a great height? 
An awful sight! He closed his eyes to shut it out. When 
he opened them again he was relieved to see the water 
as before. But what was that hairy form straddled on 
the landing-place? As he looked it dived with a splash, 
came up again, and swam southward with great speed. 

From the empty stillness of the sea he thought he heard 
a sound, coming, it seemed, from the tripartite rock he 
had named Calvary. He listened intently, bending his 
head to catch it better. Yes; he was not mistaken. It 
was a thudding noise, growing clearer and clearer, coming 
from behind those three splintered crags. Thud, thud, 
thud! Each measured beat reached his ears plainly now. 
The Nails of Fate again! Te semper anteit sceva Neces- 
sitas . . . . Was it here, in this lonely spot, Fate made 
the crosses for humanity’s crucifixion? Was this the 
explanation and the meaning of all? 

A shadow fell across the brightness of the water, float¬ 
ing from the three-peaked rock in the direction of the 
landing-place. To the half-crazed figure on the beach it 


THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE SEA 349 


took shape as the visible manifestation of his terror 
coming at last from Calvary to seize him. 

He turned and fled, with no thought but to reach the 
shelter of the hut before it could overtake and destroy 
him. Up the slope he raced, with the horror of the im¬ 
possible behind him. The hut door flapped open in the 
moonlight. He rushed within and barred and bolted 
the door. Panting, he stood in the dark, listening. The 
strange noise still throbbed from Calvary Island, but to 
the listener within the sound came closer, until he deemed 
it to be the thing which had stalked him home, trying 
to batter down the door of the hut to get at him. Then 
his consciousness completely and mercifully fled. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


MOVING WATERS CANNOT QUENCH EOVE 

said Captain Marquet, balancing himself in 
the stern sheets, “it’s not to be done. That’s 
^ what I said last night when Miss Chester wanted 
to land at once, and that’s what I say now. I’ll take 
no chances with this current. I know these seas—none 
better—and I’m not going to risk a good boat this morn¬ 
ing any more than the Ascanius last night. We can’t go 
closer in with this swell on. You’ll have to be carried 
ashore.” 

The boat tossed uneasily in the white surf. Behind, a 
frisky sea danced gaily in crested waves through groups 
of barren rocks, with the Ascanius gently rising and fall¬ 
ing in the distance; in front, the grim cliffs and shingle 
beach of Sanctuary Island, and a landing-place at present 
a-wash. Lady Mercer glanced towards it, then cast an 
agitated look over the side of the boat at the teeth of 
rock bared in the seething green, marking the mouth of 
the narrow channel which led to the shore. 

“It looks shockingly dangerous,” she said sharply. “I 
do not like the idea at all. Suppose the man was to 
slip?” 

“Not likely. Looks much worse than it is.” Captain 

Marquet was genially tolerant of feminine fears. “Steady, 

there, Tom”—he spoke to a brown and hairy seaman in 

the bow—“we’ll drop the grapnel among these rocks. 

Slack away a bit. Now, let her ride easy, just outside 

the bar. No, no. There’s no danger, m’m”—this to 

350 


MOVING WATERS CANNOT QUENCH LOVE 351 

Lady Mercer again “we’ve carried bags of stores ashore 
from here with the tide like this, haven’t we, Tom?” 

I m not a bag of stores.” Lady Mercer spoke with 
austerity, again looking at the broken hissing water be¬ 
tween the boat and the landing-place. She turned to 
the girl beside her, and murmured: “I must say this is 
very like Robert, living in such a place.” Resolution 
came to her with an effort. “Very well, then; if there 
is no other way-” 

Captain Marquet gripped a projecting rock to steady 
the boat, and nodded to the barefooted and bareheaded 
seaman in the bow. The man scrambled into the shallow 
water, and lifted Lady Mercer over the gunwale with 
miraculous ease. Lady Mercer shut her eyes, and was 
safely carried ashore. Captain Marquet followed with 
the slender figure which had been seated beside her, leav¬ 
ing the empty boat rocking easily in the mouth of the 
channel. 

“Well, here w'e are at last, Kathleen!” Lady Mercer 
said, looking round her curiously from the security of 
the landing-place, beyond the reach of lapping waves. 
“This is a pretty jaunt for one at my time of life. When 
I told Robert at Redways that I should like to see his 
island I never supposed that it would ever come to pass, 
or that I would be carried ashore in the arms of a strange 
sailor. However, it’s an accomplished fact. Now, what 
next?” 

Kathleen did not reply. She dared not. At that 
moment she was in an exalted and highly strung mood, 
beset by emotions which made her feel weak and hysterical 
at the end of her long journey. Her colour came vividly 
and she breathed fast, but her eyes were very serious as 
she stood at the goal of her dreams of the past weary 
months. This was reality: this was his home—this frown- 




352 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


ing place of screaming birds, looking out on an empty 
mysterious sea and barren rocks which rose from the 
deep like contorted and petrified ghosts. Desolation un¬ 
speakable ; desolation complete! Her eyes, searching this 
scene to the lonely horizon, saw it in blurred outline, 
through tears. She had sent him back to it, because 
she lacked faith. Would he forgive her now? Ah, why 
had she doubted him? He must be made to understand 
that through it all she had always loved him. Yet love 
meant faith, and she had failed him there—failed him 
grievously. 

A voice broke into her meditations. Captain Marquet 
spoke. 

“That’s where the curator lives, m’m, up that slope.” 

“That hut!” Lady Mercer inspected through glasses. 
“After Redways!” she murmured in an undertone. 

“Kathleen, my dear-” 

But Kathleen was looking at the hut with her heart 
in her eyes, looking at it as if she loved it too; mean 
and unsightly as it was, crouched above her on the little 
hill. Captain Marquet, eyeing it with less emotion, no¬ 
ticed that the door was closed and the chimney without 
smoke. Strange! The chap must have seen the As- 
canius, unless he was still in bed, which was hardly likely. 
With a slight inward uneasiness which he manfully con¬ 
cealed, Captain Marquet gruffly ordered the sailor to go 
ahead and tell the curator he was w T anted. Kathleen, 
dark eyes aglow with excitement, would dearly have liked 
to be the bearer of that message, but girls must observe 
conventions even on desert islands, and Lady Mercer’s 
glance was upon her. But she wished Lady Mercer would 
walk a little faster. The distance was short, however. 
They reached the hut, and were confronted by the spec¬ 
tacle of Tom knocking loudly at the closed door. 




MOVING WATERS CANNOT QUENCH LOVE 353 

“I can’t make him hear,” he said, as they ap¬ 
proached. 

“Gone out early, I expect,” said Captain Marquet, 
speaking casually. 

“The door’s fast,” observed the sailor in a low voice. 
u There’s a dog inside. I can hear it scratching and 
whining.” 

Lady Mercer made a sign of fear, and Kathleen, going 
swiftly white, stepped to the door and placed her hand 
on the latch. Captain Marquet put her aside and tried 
the door, rattling the wooden latch sharply. 

“Raymond, Raymond!” he cried, and “Raymond” came 
echoing back from the hills in a faint spectral tone, like 
the ghost of his own hearty voice. 

The echo died away, and was succeeded by perfect 
silence. They looked at one another with bated breath. 
Kathleen’s heart beat quickly, and she placed her hand 
there unconsciously. Her distressed eyes sought Captain 
Marquet’s. The captain felt that it was his duty as a 
man to say something reassuring. 

“No need to worry, Miss Chester,” he said. “Likely 
as not he’s gone for a cruise in his boat.” 

“The boat’s hauled up on that shingle beach,” said 
the sailor, pointing to it. 

“When I want your talk I’ll ask for it,” said Captain 
Marquet curtly. “What you’ve to do is to unfasten 
those shutters and get through that window. Up with 
you, man—skipper’s orders. Sharp’s the word. Here, 
I’ll give you a leg.” 

The shutter yielded easily, and the man got through. 
Listening, they heard his footfall in the stillness within, 
followed by the sound of a stumble and a sharp exclama¬ 
tion. Then the door flew open and revealed a scared 
brown face. 


354 ISLAND OF DESTINY 

“He’s here,” he stammered. “He and the dog. 
But-” 

“What is it?” cried Kathleen, endeavouring to look 
over his shoulder, but Captain Marquet pushed past the 
man into the hut. A beam of light fell slanting through 
the darkness on a figure prone on the floor within. Cap¬ 
tain Marquet bent down, but Kathleen was before him, 
and beheld the white face of Robert Ljnngarth in the 
gloom. She could detect no semblance of life. “He is 
dead,” she whispered. 

“No; not dead,” said Captain Marquet sharply. 
“Quick, Tom, bear a hand here.” 

Between them they lifted Robert onto his bed. The 
light from the window streamed in on the bunk, and 
Marquet bent over the unconscious form. A rough 
knowledge of doctoring gained afloat in lonely seas was 
useful now. He felt Robert’s pulse, and placed his ear 
against his chest to listen to his laboured breathing. 
Kathleen stood beside him, watching breathlessly. 

“In a fever and been delirious,” the captain announced. 
“High temperature, I expect. Looks like pneumonia, or 
something of that sort. I had a hand bad like him last 
year. You remember poor Peter Brown, Tom?” 

“Yes,” responded the sailor, nodding a sagacious head 
towards the sea as an indication of the ultimate end of 
poor Peter Brown. 

“Oh!” Kathleen’s startled eyes were lifted from the 
inert face of Robert to Captain Marquet’s. “He is ill— 
dying, perhaps. What are we to do?” 

“He’d better be taken aboard, I think. We can look 
after him better there.” He glanced round the hut. 
“There’s nothing here for a sick man. Half his stores 
untouched too. Looks as though he’s been starving him¬ 
self.” 



MOVING WATERS CANNOT QUENCH LOVE 355 

“No wonder!” broke in Lady Mercer sharply. She 
also had been taking note of the hut and its contents. 
“No wonder,” she repeated in angry voice, “if this is 
all he had to eat! Biscuits like stone, tinned meat, and 
mouldy cheese. So this is the simple life? I wish we 
were safe back in England. Captain Marquet, you and 
your man had better carry Sir Robert—Mr. Raymond— 
down to the boat at once. The sooner we get him away 
from here the better.” 

“It’s not so easily managed as you think.” 

Captain Marquet answered thus with the resentment 
of professional pride in arms. Lady Mercer might have 
chartered the Ascanms for this trip, but neither that fact, 
nor her title or wealth, gave her the right to address 
him, Captain John Marquet, commander of the Dominion 
Government’s lighthouse steamer, as if he were the mere 
skipper of a Thames pleasure boat. 

“Why not?” asked Lady Mercer shortly. 

Captain Marquet’s spine stiffened a shade more. He 
told himself that this was coming it a bit strong. Would 
the lady have spoken so to the captain of the liner which 
brought her out from England? He reckoned not. Well, 
he would teach her that Captain Marquet was just as 
much to be respected, even if he didn’t wear gold lace 
and trimmings. 

“The tide’s turned, for one thing.” He pointed 
through the open door to the sea, and the Ascamus rising 
and falling in the distance. “There’s an ugly current off 
here at ebb-tide, and it’s a long dangerous journey with 
five in the boat. We should have to lay him at full- 
length, you know. He’ll want careful watching too.” 
He indicated the unconscious form in the bunk, now 
moaning and tossing deliriously. 

“There’s his motor-boat on the beach,” suggested the 


356 ISLAND OF DESTINY 

sailor. “Why not put him in that? I could follow 
you out.” 

“Through the channel and rocks of the reef?” said 
Captain Marquet. “Not to be thought of.” 

“Then what’s to be done?” exclaimed Lady Mercer 
distractedly. 

Kathleen, anxiously fanning Robert’s face, looked up 
quickly. 

“Please, Captain Marquet, think of some way at once. 
Do not let us remain in this dreadful situation. We 
depend on you.” 

He caught her look and nodded. He had feasted his 
eyes upon the younger of his two passengers during the 
voyage from the teacup city, and the dewy glance of 
slim and dark-eyed beauty in distress melted his heart 
now. He was the resourceful mariner again immediately, 
quick to overcome obstacles. 

“The best way is to take him off in a larger boat, with 
a stretcher to carry him down to the landing-place,” he 
said. “Some one had better stav here till we return.” 

“Very well,” said Lady Mercer. “Who-” 

“I will stay,” said Kathleen simply. 

So it was decided without more words. A moment or 
two later the boat cast off from its anchorage with three 
figures in it, and from the hut Kathleen saw them go. 
Then she turned her eyes from the open door. She was 
alone with the man she loved in the lonely place of her 
distant dreams. 

Outside, the immobile expanse of water was dissolving 
golden red beneath great slanting beams of the risen sun, 
which, by the sheer glory of sunlight, turned that scene 
of desolation into one of beauty, and stilled the unrest 
of the sea into a murmuring content. Beneath the magic 
of the sun’s spell it flowed gently in sound and shallow, 



MOVING WATERS CANNOT QUENCH LOVE 357 

and lapped against black and riven crags with scarcely 
a ripple of its smooth, unruffled surface. Within the hut 
Kathleen was dimly aware that she was surrounded by 
an immensity of solitude and peace. She sat beside Rob¬ 
ert, her eyes fixed on his white face, her slim cool fingers 
holding his burning hand. He had not stirred since the 
others had left her in the hut. She felt as if she were 
the one being left alive in an empty world: a girl alone 
with bitter and unavailing regret. She sat quite still, 
looking down at Robert, praying, hoping, praying. . . . 

An hour passed, though she had no knowledge of its 
flight. Once the sick man stirred and muttered some¬ 
thing. She bent over him anxiously, wetting his lips with 
a little water, and he sank into stupor again. She began 
to wonder w r hen the boat would return, but could see 
nothing through the open door but a shining and empty 
sea. 

The sun, rising higher, sent a strip of light through the 
open window onto the bed. It fell upon Robert’s face, 
and he stirred a little. Kathleen rose quietly from her 
seat to close the shutters. When she returned he was 
lying in a slightly altered position, his eyes open, and 
was glancing around him. 

He showed no surprise as she bent over him. 

“Is it you, then, Kathleen—really you?” he asked, in 
a weak voice. 

She was on her knees beside him now. “Yes,” she 
said tremulously. 

His eyes rested on her downcast face for a moment, 
then he spoke again: 

“How did you get here?” 

“By the Ascanius she answered. “But, oh, Robert, 
you must not talk. You have been ill—you are still.” 

He sighed and nodded, then his lips moved. 


358 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


“I shall get better now that you are here, Kathleen. 
I was ill last night, I believe. Delirious—something of 
that sort—I’ve not a very clear idea. But that’s past, 
and you are here.” He fixed tired eyes upon her 
earnestly, as if he feared she might vanish again. 

“I wanted to come ashore last night,” she told him 
in her soft voice. “I could see the island from the ship, 
but Captain Marquet said it would be dangerous to try 
and land at night. But if I had known that you were 
ill-” 

Her voice failed her suddenly. He looked at her with 
the faint flicker of a smile in his eyes. 

“So Fate’s hammer on Calvary Island was the thump¬ 
ing of the steamer’s screw?” he whispered. “Well, why 
not? Why shouldn’t the Ascanius be the chosen instru¬ 
ment of Fate?” 

She feared he was delirious again, but his eyes reassured 
her. He gave her a clear glance. 

“Tell me what brought you out here to me, Kathleen?” 
he said. 

“To ask you to forgive me,” she murmured, coming 
still closer. “I—I know the truth now.” 

He did not ask her how she had learnt it, and she was 
thankful for that. A smile crept into his face which she 
had never seen there before—one of peace and content. 
The old whimsical glance of the Robert Lynngarth she 
had known long ago came into his eyes as he looked at 
her now. 

“You’re forgiven, Lady Fibbets, if you’ll bend over 
and kiss me. I’m a bit too weak to sit up yet. You 
owe me something, you know-” 

He asked no more questions after that, but lay with 
closed eyes, breathing heavily. A slight pressure of his 
hand told Kathleen that he was aware of her presence. 





MOVING WATERS CANNOT QUENCH LOVE 359 


They remained thus in perfect quietude until her eyes, 
dwelling on the open sea, saw the black shadow of the 
returning boat moving rapidly over the clear surface 
towards the landing-place. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


SANCTUARY 

I N Hampshire the winter lingered, and a white land 
sparkled beneath a cold sun. The snow covered the 
lawns and gardens at Redwajs, and partly hid the 
old house from sight. But the primroses were out in 
the sheltered lanes, and spring was not very far away. 

The short dusk was drawing on, and the rooks were 
trailing homeward like inky spots against a steel-coloured 
sky. All was still about Redways in the early gloaming. 
The windows were unlighted yet, and the place looked 
deserted. 

Then the front door opened and a man appeared. 

It was Robert Lynngarth. He stepped down from the 
terrace, crossed the rimed garden, and went through the 
rustic gate which led across the fields. He walked quickly, 
like one with a definite object in view. 

He had been back in England for some months—for 
the better part of a year, in fact. They had been months 
of slow illness and lingering convalesence, but he was 
now well again. He was staying in the old house alone, 
and it was the eve of his wedding day. He and Kathleen 
were to be married on the following day in London. 
Then Paris, the Riviera, and Italy—such was the pro¬ 
jected outline of the honeymoon, planned by Kathleen 
with loving care, with an eye to his complete restoration 
in soft airs, before they returned to Redways at the 
time of the nightingales. 

Changes and opening vistas—yes. The future was 

360 



SANCTUARY 


361 


before him, fair and hopeful. But on this last evening 
he had a last tryst with one enshrined in his memory. 

He walked on through the fields to where black yews 
encircled a place in which the dead slept beneath a soft 
white covering. His footsteps fell noiselessly in the snow 
as he made his way across the churchyard to the family 
grave. 

Two names had been added since he left England: 
those of his father and his father’s second wife. On the 
column which marked their resting-place their names were 
carved beneath his mother’s—three names now—and be¬ 
low was the text he had pondered over that afternoon 
nearly a year ago: 

“O death, where is thy sting? 

O grave, where is thy victory ?” 

The words were carved deep in the frosted stone, as 
if meant thus to be graved in triumphant conviction upon 
the hearts of all who read them. 

Stella had died before his return, and had been brought 
there for burial in the spring, in the golden tide of the 
daffodils. She had died at the nursing home in South 
Kensington some weeks after Glenluce had seen her there. 
From that time onward she had weakened daily until the 
end. Medical science had been baffled by her case. Noth¬ 
ing organic: general weakness, lack of rallying power; 
the doctors clung to their shibboleths until the last. So 
much Robert had learnt from Glenluce, who, with the 
Horburys, had followed her to the grave. But Robert 
knew more than the men who physic the flesh. Hers was 
an illness of the spirit. She had sustained a mortal wound 
there, and died of the hurt. She had died because she 
wanted to die. The grave had won no victory over her. 


362 


ISLAND OF DESTINY 


Life had held nothing for her, alas! She had told him 
so when he last saw her. 

Vividly he recalled that parting now, aid her last look 
as the train moved out: a look which would abide with 
him until obliterated by death. And Glenluce had given 
him her last message. “Give him my love when he re¬ 
turns : he will understand. . . .” 

Had he always understood? Had he done right where 
she was concerned? Standing by her graveside now, he 
asked himself these questions with a sad heart. And 
w T orldly w r isdom sought to comfort him with the assurance 
that he had done everything for the best. 

As he mused thus, the face of Kathleen seemed to rise 
between him and his gloomy fancies, looking at him as 
she w r ould look at him on the morrow, with eyes of tender 
and steadfast love. The vision brought him back from 
the past to the present. To-morrow! Happiness was 
to be his—happiness beyond his deserts. That, and his 
life, were Stella’s gifts to him. He bent and kissed her 
name on the stone. 

“Good night, dear Stella,” he said softly, and turned 
away from the darkening churchyard, to walk slowly 
homeward across the fields. 


THE END 




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